


Two Weeks Notice

by Etheostoma



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Boss Crowley, But I Am Going to Make Them Work for It, But They Are Both Thinking About It Now, Cheese, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lawyer Aziraphale, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Well Not Quite Yet - Freeform, we have it all folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: Ezra Fell is an unassuming public interest lawyer and self-proclaimed savior of all things small and local. Anthony Crowley is a stylish, wealthy, real estate mogul—and more than a bit of a playboy. When the real estate developer finds himself in desperate need of a competent personal assistant and legal counsel, he bribes the lawyer into working for him.What could possible go wrong?Chapter Five: Ezra enacts his devious plan to force Crowley to fire him. Things get...complicated.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a deep-seated love for certain cheesy chick-flicks, and Two Weeks Notice has been on that list for a long time. The idea for this fic has been brewing for a long time, and I have done what I typically never do and have created an outline and written the first five chapters before even beginning to think about posting. 
> 
> My plan is to post every week on Friday, and to stay ahead of deadlines as I go so that updating is consistent!
> 
> The plot will loosely follow the outline of the movie, but everything is tailored for GO, and hopefully will not be too predictable. 
> 
> I promise happy endings, rom-com-level slow burn, and a smutty final chapter ;)

It was a bright day in the early weeks of fall, just a hint of jeweled colors touching the tips of the trees that lined this section of the city street. It was a modest little suburb on the outskirts of London, the towering skyscrapers that lined downtown small hills on the horizon. Cars lurched by at a leisurely pace, speed tempered by the stop-and-go motions monitored by the series of traffic lights spaced down along the block.

It was a quaint little area, the neighborhood established, tight-knit, and rife with local history, and was the childhood home of one Ezra Fell—Oxford graduate, public interest lawyer, and resident self-proclaimed savior of all things small and local. The area was _also_ home to a recently-bankrupt mom-and-pop deli that made the best pastrami sandwich that side of London—

—and _it_ was scheduled for demolition, the latest local landmark on a long list of victims of the capitalist agenda.

“Hurry up, hurry up!!” Ezra bounced up and down, squinting down the street toward the oncoming fleet of demolition vehicles. “Newt, Anathema—they are about to arrive, we have to be in place before the bulldozers get too close!” He flung out an arm and grasped his friend Anathema Device’s wrist, tugging her off of the curb and out into the street in front of the little community deli. He kept his grip tight, trusting that the grasp she kept on her boyfriend Newt’s shoulder—Newton Pulsifer, who for reasons that should be fairly obvious elected to be known simply as “Newt”—would bring the hesitant young man along with them.

Though he was nearly twenty years the senior of the college-aged duo, Ezra counted Newt and Anathema among his best and dearest friends—which meant that they often found themselves taking center stage in his well-intentioned protests. Always one for a lost cause, Anathema dove quite enthusiastically into Ezra’s _pursuit de jour,_ while Newt tagged along amiably enough, albeit much more reluctantly. Together, they made a unique trio, but they were closer to Ezra than his own family, and certainly much more involved in both his personal and professional lives than anyone other than the best of friends had cause to be.

Ezra wouldn’t trade them for the world.

They stood in an offset triangle, the lawyer taking point and glaring defiantly up at the rumbling avalanche of machinery bearing down upon them, his hair a white-blond halo about his head. They made a strange picture: the middle-aged, cherubic lawyer, complete with bow tie, vest and pocket-watch, the witchy woman with a wry smile perched perpetually on her lips, and the lanky, bespectacled IT student with the most bizarre look of resigned trepidation clinging to his face.

Ezra took a broad stance, staring down the street to the line of traffic cones and caution tape, and took in the line of machinery inching toward the deli—and toward him and his friends. He could read the mounting terror in Newt’s pasty face as clearly as one of the pages of his more beloved books, and quickly moved to stand in front of the younger couple. “They can’t tear it down if we are in the way,” Ezra insisted, projecting far more confidence than he actually felt. He maintained the irrational hope that if he said it enough times it would have to be true.

Technically, the statement was true by the letter of the law, but Ezra also knew full and well—and quite possibly through previous experience, not that he was admitting to anything—that they could quite easily remove him in a tic and proceed quite readily with affairs, pretending this little protest had never even existed and washing their hands of the whole affair. This was a show, for him as well as the contractors, and it only remained to be see how long his little charade would be allowed to continue on in the same vein until the arrival of local law enforcement brought it to a screeching halt.

Still, he had to at least _try._

His outward calm was overshot by the rapid thrumming of his heart as it beat an erratic pattern against his chest, faint tremors of anxiety beginning to overtake him as his earlier confidence slowly drained away. He could see the exasperated contractor furiously punching numbers into his phone just beyond range of the work zone, and knew that time was not on their side. These protests ran the same pattern, time and time again, but he couldn’t help but at least _attempt_ to take a stand.

He knew that it was a long shot—the deli was one mold infestation away from condemned—but it was a community _landmark_ , and to lose it in favor of some stucco-and-glass strip mall filled with over-hyped, impersonal machinations of the capital agenda was an outrange. “Come on, you two,” he encouraged, tugging Anathema and her increasingly-alarmed boyfriend to the center of the street, arms splayed wide. “What are they going to do, run us over?”

Eyes wide behind his round spectacles, Newt gulped audibly and nodded at the oncoming wave of machinery. “Yes, it would seem.”

“Oh pish,” Ezra waved away his concerns, and linked his arms through first Newt’s, and then Anathema’s elbows. “Stop,” he ordered, “ _stop!”_ He jumped up and down, ineffectively waving their linked arms. Still the operators ignored him, bearing down upon their mismatched little trio with amusement bright in their eyes, eager to see just how far the cherubic little lawyer was willing to take this little charade. Many of them had worked with—or against, rather—Ezra in the past, and knew full and well that if left to his own devices he could indeed orchestrate quite the show.

As the rumbling avalanche gained ground, Ezra sighed. There would be no magical shut down of equipment this time around. He resigned to having to dive out of the way, mentally squaring up for one final, defiant glower before he, as the kids would say, “did a runner.”

_That_ plan promptly fell to seed as Anathema upended his entire, carefully-constructed escape plan as she reached across his chest to clutch at Newt’s sleeve, seeking out his hand and holding it through their still-linked arms. “Newt,” she said, eyes bright and a slightly wild grin touching her lips, “I know the timing it shit, but I’ve been wanting to ask all day—would you marry me?”

Newt froze, blinking owlishly, and then grinned, the chaos around them instantly forgotten as he twisted to lean forward and catch Anathema in an enthusiastic kiss. “Yes, of course!” he said, all but tripping over his own feet in his haste to extricate himself from Ezra’s grasp and launch himself into Anathema’s arms.

“Really?” Ezra raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Congratulations, you two, I love you both dearly and cannot express how excited I am for you, but _really?_ I hardly think now is the best time!”

That said, he could hardly fault them for their shite timing. He had been after Anathema for months to finally take their relationship to the next level, for he and Anathema both knew that Newt would never garner the courage to be the one to actually propose. His heart swelled with affection as his friends embraced, and he _may_ have briefly removed himself mentally from the present moment and begun cataloging his wardrobe in search of appropriate attire for a wedding.

In the midst of Newt and Anathema’s joyful exclamations, however, Ezra because suddenly, painfully aware that the oncoming demolition derby was no longer bearing down upon them. Silence was sudden and deafening, the wall of bright machines towering scant feet before their little trio. Victory was short lived, for over the ringing in his ears Ezra could hear the faint wail of approaching sirens.

He sighed, looking skyward with a look of frustrated resignation.

“Well, fuck.”

* * *

Five hours later found Ezra staggering out of the police station into the waning autumn sunlight, a disgruntled look perched upon his face and a distinctly unkempt air to his usually-immaculate person. “Thank you, Tracy,” he said sheepishly, settling his pocket watch back in place and straightening his bow tie. He tossed a quick, affronted look back at the building behind him. “I owe you and Mr. Shadwell. If not for you I might have been there for _another_ five hours.”

“Nonsense!” The loquacious blonde tossed her head with a wink, patting the lawyer on his hand. “What are friends for if not to bail you out of jail! Right, Mr. S?”

The grizzled man behind her grunted in reply, then muttered his assent as Tracy none-too-gently jammed her elbow into his ribcage. “Right, right,” he grumbled in his thick burr. “Third time’s the charm this month, eh, Ezra?”

Ezra grumbled, looking bashful. “Even so, thank you.” He had never been one to ask for help, electing instead to address his problems in a steadfast and singular manner, breaking out on his own as soon as the opportunity arose. Making the stereotypical “one call” from the police station had been galling, an insult to his person and profession. However, conceding defeat and phoning a friend had been _infinitely_ preferable to a night spent in a cell, so make the call he had. “I just wish it all actually made a difference! These people and communities need someone to stand up for them,” he sighed, smoothing his hands down the front of his coat in an attempt to erase some imaginary crease. “I have the education, but no one wants to stop and listen to the ‘little guy’, even when he is more than qualified to takestance. Assholes like that Anthony Crowley can’t just presume to come in and annihilate these little local gems,” he grumbled.

And, indeed, Anthony Crowley sat at the heart of most of Ezra’s recent issues. A far-too-wealthy real estate mogul, the proliferous Mr. Crowley had a far-reaching empire that spanned multiple industries and countries. Lately, his attention had turned to precisely the sort of local causes and landmarks that Ezra strove to protect and preserve—little independent shops and bars and non-profits that realistically could only _ever_ be represented pro bono.

Ezra, as he well knew and often admittedly wryly, had a bleeding heart that caved wide open for hopeless causes, so he could not help but raise his standard time and time again and take a stance against that demon Crowley’s ever-expanding empire. He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“It just isn’t right that he can come in and turn over an entire small, family-run community in a span of months,” he said despairingly, obediently following Tracy and Shadwell down the street as they guided his distracted self toward their modest little flat. They were on the same wall and shared a single wall between bedrooms, which made matters more than a little awkward when Tracy’s more colorful background decided to show itself in the evening hours. Nevertheless, they were at the end of the day the best of neighbors, and excellent—if quirky—friends to have around.

Though it was only September, the air had already started to turn brisk, and Ezra shivered despite himself, clutching at his upper arms as a particularly raw turn of wind cut straight through every layer he wore. “Fall is coming on quickly,” he observed, turning up the collar of his coat and tucking his face down toward the ground. “Seems fitting, cold air to match the cold world.”

“Oh, love,” Tracy cooed, patting his shoulder, “it’ll be alright, you’ll see.” She hated to see Mr. F, as she had deemed Ezra, so down in the dumps. His was a cheerful nature, his very presence a light to any gloom. “Come on, let’s get a move on!” She steered him along, eyeing the little Thai place at the corner of the intersection. “Go home, get some food, and let it settle. You have your other cases to think about, and I heard something about that little library that you love the other day—“

She cut off abruptly as Shadwell elbowed her, shaking his head. “Nae, lassie, leave it be.”

But it was too late, Ezra’s attention was caught. “What _about_ my little library?” he asked suspiciously. A tight knot of dread formed low in his gut. He _adored_ the little library down the way. It had been his haven during law school whenever he was home form Oxford, hosting many a holiday study session between its cozy little walls. To think that it would be the latest victim to unnecessary community growth—the indignity of it brought tears to his eyes.

Tracy coughed, shooting him an apologetic look and reaching out haphazardly to clutch at his hand. “Oh, love—it sold to one of that Crowley man’s side enterprises, they’ll be tearing it down next week.”

And that was the final nail in the coffin. Ezra’s thick, carefully-constructed outer shell cracked and gave way, peeling back to expose the sensitive nature he had learned very early on in his law career to lock away as securely as possible. His heart twisted. “Oh, but they can’t!” The exclamation tore from his lips, his eyes widening and, embarrassingly enough, gathering _tears_ in their corners. “It’s been there forever—it’s still _open!”_

But even as he spoke, Tracy was shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter, love,” she cooed, patting his hand in a poorly-mustered attempt at comfort. “They signed the papers yesterday, it’s as good as gone.”

“T’was an ugly building anyway,” Shadwell added with a glower, his attempt at comfort falling even shorter from the mark than Tracy’s.

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Ezra wailed, his lower lip wobbling, “it’s what’s inside that counts.” He sniffled, dragged the sleeve of his coat in front of his face to hide his eyes, and allowed himself a moment to wallow in the self-pity he felt to which, in that moment, he felt very rightly entitled.

“Oh, pet,” Tracy hovered at his back, limbs akimbo as she fluttered indecisively from foot to foot, her hands running from shoulder to waist as she combed them comfortably along the soft fabric of his coat. “It’ll be alright, it _will.”_

Sighing _,_ Ezra shook his head, shoulders slumping as he reached into his coat pocket and fished out his phone _. “_ It _won’t_ ,” he muttered rebelliously, nevertheless punching in the number for their favorite takeout restaurant. Head cocked, he listened to the wait staff on the other end of the line, “yes, I’d like a number twenty-two, a number five, two—no, three eggrolls, a small pork fried rice, and, hang on—“ drawing back, he looked at his flatmates, “Tracy, would you and the Sergeant like anything?”

“Sorry love,” she cooed, shaking her head, “We’re out on the town tonight. Mr. S owes me dinner and a show.”

“Aye, the lassie did make me promise.”

“Although the _real_ show is coming after dinner,” Tracy said, sotto voce, and Ezra winced.

“Ahem, right,” he muttered, face flushing a brilliant rose pink, returning his attention to his mobile. “No, that’ll be all.” He rolled his eyes, flush creeping down his collar. “ _Yes,_ it’s for one. Fifteen minutes, perfect, thanks, I’ll be there.”

He hung up with a flourish and glared at Tracy. “Happy now? I’ll be home alone and depressed, but at least I’ll have food.”

“That’s the ticket, dear,” Tracy cheered, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’ll be okay while we’re out?” The stare she leveled at him from beneath her carefully-penciled eyebrows could have stopped a charging rhinoceros in its tracks. “You won’t just sit around and mope?”

Ezra’s response was to raise both eyebrows and stare at her in return. “Not without wine,” he replied, tone as dry as his flat was not.

“That’s the spirit, laddie,” Shadwell chortled, thwacking Ezra on the back and ignoring his wince. “If ya need more, _my_ spirits are up in the cabinet above the washing machine in our flat.”

Ezra could not help but snicker, watery as it was. “Thank you, Mr. S,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ll bear that in mind. You both go on, now, I’ll be fine. I plan on turning in early, and with enough alcohol in my system that I hopefully will not hear _any_ of your after-hours activities.” So saying, he shrugged out from between them and started off down the street, shaking his head.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley sighed heavily, whipping out his phone and pressing it agitatedly to his ear. “Hastur,” he snapped into it, “give it to me, what’s the status?”

Clad head-to-toe in a well-cut black designer suit, Crowley cut an impressive figure even while seated. He wore his iron-oxide hair cut fashionably long, relishing the freedom to leave it free to tumble about his shoulders in a waterfall of elegant curls _or to_ set up neatly in a tight bun at the top of his head. Today it sat somewhere in the middle, a mess of curling red held partially back from his face by a clip at the back, made slightly messier by the agitated way he kept running his fingers through it as his thought.

A low, irritated voice growled back at him over the line, and Crowley’s face darkened further. “Shit shit shit _shit.”_ He gripped the steering wheel of his car with his free hand and pressed his face to the leather at center of the wheel. “He just quit?” Another indecipherable growl rolled out of the phone and Crowley groaned. “Just great. Pending divorce from that harpy Carmine, she’s demanding _triple_ the alimony, _and_ Beez decides to just fire my Chief Counsel?”

Hastur garbled out a response, and Crowley sighed. “Okay, _yes_ , he was a model as well as a lawyer, and _yes,_ his law degree was certainly…questionable, but…Fine. _Fine._ I don’t care. Find me a new one.” He paused for a moment, listening. “Yes, I mean it. Find me someone _now._ Someone with a fucking fantastic resume—Harvard, Princeton, somewhere with a reputation, someone who’ll be of some _use_ this time around. Someone _pretty,_ of course, but someone Beez won’t fire.” He hung up and chucked the mobile into the passenger seat, breathing deeply through his nose.

How was he supposed to make it through the next week without a Chief Counsel? He ran the business, he didn’t need to have to worry about making decisions about anything _else_ at the same time.

The bright morning sunlight streaming through his windshield was doing nothing to help his growing headache. Growling a litany of obscenities, he punched the drop-down compartment above his dashboard and fished out a par of dark, trendy sunglasses. “I suppose it’s time to get to work,” he grumbled, settling them over his uncanny amber eyes.

Somehow, he managed to make it to one of the company’s satellite offices without running over someone. He ramped halfway over the curb and threw the Bentley into ‘Park”, slamming the door behind him sweeping into the lobby with his traditional swagger. He was only planning to be here for a few moments at best—retrieve some paperwork, snag that bottle of hair product he had forgotten about, and then go meet Hastur to start interviewing someone for that annoyingly vacant Chief Counsel position. He was immediately besieged by a swarm of underlings waving papers and envelops and memos in his face, all needing his—and only his—signature, statement, and opinion. Grimacing, he staved them off with a wave of his hand, wading through the veritable sea of employees to all but launch himself toward the elevator.

Groaning when he realized they were all closed, he punched at the call button and settled back against the wall, scrolling through some resumes of applicants that Hastur had forwarded. His brows drew tightly together. “Monticello School of Law?” He brought the small screen close to his face, peering at it in irritation. “Is that even a real school?” He hummed, gaze sweeping across the pixelated headshot of the applicant. “She is quite attractive, though.”

“Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley’s all but leapt out of his skin, scrambling up right and shoving his phone in the back pocket of his skintight suit trousers. “Just Crowley’ll do,” he replied, spinning on his heel to peer down at the flustered individual hovering by his elbow. His eyebrows shot up to his rust-red hairline, settling in orbit in the stratosphere of his forehead. The man who stood beside him gave every impression of being a bookish professor or librarian, down to the golden pocket watch glinting at the waist of his vest, and was peering at him with a look of stern resolve, blue eyes bright with irritation.

“Crowley, then,” the man continued, unperturbed by Crowley’s brusque reply, his hair falling in a white-blond halo about his face, “why are you so determined to bring about the untimely demise of cherished community landmarks? Countless buildings destroyed by _your_ company in the name of ‘furthering development’ could easily be saved and repurposed instead of simply being demolished like a sandcastle at high tide.”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

The man pressed his advantage. “I wanted to talk to you about your scheduled demolition of the old library down in Soho. You realize that building has so much sentimental value to the community, not to mention the potential to become a treasured—“

Crowley blinked again, utterly bemused. Perhaps this was a lawyer Hastur had funneled his way. While he certainly wasn’t his _usual_ type, the man was nevertheless _gorgeous,_ with his mess of white-blond curls, wickedly intelligent blue eyes, and strong, sturdy frame that his dated outfit did absolutely _nothing_ to disguise.

“Have you ever heard of Monticello School of Law?” he asked absently. He looked at his phone, feigning disinterest as he flicked from the initial email to a new text demanding he appear at a press conference at his primary office in half an hour.

The stranger paused and cocked his head thoughtfully. “No, I don’t believe it’s even an accredited institution.”

“Hm.” Crowley spun on his heel, grabbed the man by the elbow, and began stepping them both back to the main doors of the building. “Well, I assume that _you_ went to law school?” At the man’s confused nod, he clicked his teeth. “Right, where then? Cambridge, Edinburgh, Harvard—“

“Oxford, actually,” answered this too-good-to-be-true, veritable angel, “but I hardly see why—“

“Excellent, you’re hired,” Crowley told him, seizing the hand that didn’t clasp a thick manilla folder and giving it a firm shake. “Pay is relative, but I believe we can start you at least in the range of 250,000 pounds a year.”

“What—?”

“Why are you so confu—oh, _oh._ You aren’t even here for the job, are you?” Crowley asked, puzzle pieces suddenly falling into place. _“_ You’re that Fell fellow, the one who camps out in front of my demo sites and dares my contractors to run him over.” A wicket grin slipped across his face. “Matter of fact, didn’t you basically _tackle_ poor old Dan over at the Oglesby job site the other week?”

Ezra turned beet red. “That might have been me, but I hardly see how that is relevant,” he muttered. “And anyway he was asking for it.”

Crowley grinned, teeth flashing white. “Brilliant! So you’re an honest-to-goodness lawyer with a degree from Oxford, you obviously aren’t shy with your opinions, you’re quick-thinking—you’re hired!”

“What? No!” Ezra jerked free of his grasp, stopping in the middle of the lobby and glaring at Crowley, arms crossed resolutely across his chest. “What the bloody _hell_ are you on about? I already have a job working at Legal Aid, I despise everything you stand for with your development! I hardly want to _work_ for you!” He stabbed his finger into the center of Crowley’s chest. “I came here to try to save my little community library, not get myself hired!”

“Library?”

“The little one over in Ealing, that you have scheduled for demo soon.”

Crowley’s blinked. “That little old thing?” He tapped one long finger against his lips pensively. “Tell you what, Ezra Fell, how about this—I save your little library—hell, I’ll even pump some funding into it and get it up and running and self-sustaining—and you come work for me as my Chief Counsel. I need legal advice from time-to-time, and day-to-day advice, well, day-to-day, and I think you are _exactly_ the correct person for the job.”

Ezra’s mind scrambled to make sense of everything that the man in front of him was saying. If he was hearing correctly, Crowley was promising to— “You’ll save my library?” he reiterated, squinting dubiously at Crowley. “Keep it where it is, and _entire_ , and even keep it running?” One foot tapped idly against the ugly, off-white tile floor of the office lobby as he thought.

“ _And_ I’ll pay you the the 250,000 quid,” Crowley chimed in temptingly.

“I’ve never cared much for money,” Ezra immediately dismissed the salary with a disinterested wave of his hand.

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Crowley snorted, sweeping his gaze across Ezra’s rather outdated attire. He gave the other man a considering look. “However, salary notwithstanding, I could perhaps be _persuaded_ to re-evaluate _other_ business ventures as well. Yes?”

At Ezra’s rather stunned nod, he grasped the other man’s wrist and began snaking his way to his waiting car.

Surprisingly, enough to Ezra, the Bentley that sat at the curbside had no driver. He had expected a limousine, or at least a chauffeured town car, so the sleek, obviously well-loved machine that awaited them was entirely unexpected. Gleefully ignoring the parking ticket plastered to the windshield, Crowley threw himself enthusiastically into the driver’s side with a grin, kicking open the passenger door and nodding. “Hop in, Ezra, we can discuss particulars as we go.”

Now it was Ezra’s turn to blink. “What?” This was all moving _far_ too quickly for him, and he felt entirely and uncomfortably out of his element.

Crowley rolled his yes. “You. My Chief Counsel. Yes?” He jerked his head to the left side of the car. “Get in, Angel. I’ll spare your little library if you take the job—and if you can keep Carmine from eating me alive in our divorce settlement.”

Ezra mouthed an incredulous ‘ _Angel?’_ and darted around the front hood to clamber into the passenger seat, snapping the seatbelt into place and turning to glare at Crowley. “Divorce is easy,” he said primly, “but we’re going to address a whole _hell_ of a lot more than just ‘my little library’ if I go through with this.”

Foot dropping to the floorboards, Crowley peeled away from the curb, chuckling as Ezra yelped and dug his fingernails into the legs of his trousers. The business mogul’s eyes were bright and wild as they darted through traffic, his red hair curling just so about his shoulders. “I think this is the beginning of something beautiful, Ezra Fell,” he declared. “Something beautiful indeed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys play the "Getting to Know You" game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the positive response to the first chapter! I'm having a ball writing this, it's nice to know there are people who enjoy reading it as well <3

“You live in a _hotel??”_ Ezra’s voice rose in pitch until it was virtually a squeak, his eyes opening wide as he followed Crowley into the lobby of the towering Hotel Serpentes. 

“Yup,” Crowley replied, grinning broadly and popping the ‘p’ as he did. “All my work is staged out of the offices in the upper floors anyway, and it seems silly to have a _house_ when I have an entire hotel and a penthouse suite to boot.” 

“I…suppose that is one way to look at it.” Ezra blinked, shook his head, and continued on into the main body of the hotel, head spinning as he tried to take in the entirety of his surroundings.

As one who lived a fairly modest life, Ezra found himself somewhat in awe of the obvious opulence of Crowley’s building. All of the hotel employees were fit, well-groomed, and immaculately-dressed, wearing dark suits and too-wide smiles. Uncannily attractive, they were all _exactly_ the type of people Ezra expected would catch and hold Crowley’s eye.

One particularly friendly young blonde caught Ezra’s eye and gave him a sly grin, sweeping an unsubtle, leering look across Ezra’s person. Blushing, Ezra jerked his head away, staring fixedly at the hotel’s furnishings to avoid that knowing gaze. All of the surrounding furniture was a deep, rich walnut, stationed just casually enough to have to have been very strategically placed. Even the floor spoke of wealth, a gleaming white marble expanse riddled with grey veins. Gilt fixtures gleamed from the walls, chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceilings, and the elevator, Ezra noticed, as Crowley bustled him into the small space, displayed at least seventy different floors. 

It was altogether the most ostentatious display that Ezra had ever seen.

He had so many responses bubbling up to the surface, so many grievances and issues with the lifestyle that surrounded him—but instead, he bit his tongue, rolled his eyes, and stepped into the elevator beside his new boss. Crowley punched the second-to-last button, which showed a large “O” on it in text. He settled back against the wall of the elevator, tapping his toe and saying down at Ezra with a quirk to his lips. “Ready?” 

Ezra took a deep breath, sent up a quick prayer for patience, and finally sagged back against the wall beside Crowley as the elevator rumbled to life. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose,” he conceded. He sat quietly for a long moment, feeling the floors rush past them. He still had not quite come to terms with the fact that he had actually accepted this position at all. But, it would save his library, could save countless _other_ buildings as well; so, definitely worth it. Despite himself, his lips turned up in a small, genuine smile. “What do you have for me?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and snorted, the elevator rumbling to a stop as he did. “What _don’t_ I have?” he asked, sweeping them out of the elevator and down the hallway. The office itself had been engineered to appear like a typical office building, rather than the upper floor of a five-star hotel. Employees sat at their desks, typing away and answering phone calls. Dress code ranged from formal to casual across the board, staff members distributed evenly amongst genders and identities. “I let everyone decide what they want to wear on this end of things,” Crowley explained, noticing Ezra’s raised eyebrows as he looked from the young man in board shorts and a tee shirt to his desk-mate in her three-piece-suit. 

“That’s very..modern,” Ezra said, secretly quite chuffed that he could continue to maintain his current wardrobe. 

“Unlike your attire,” Crowley teased, arching an eyebrow as he looked Ezra up and down, taking in the carefully-pressed slacks, light blue shirt, and tan coat and waistcoat. “You’re about one hundred years too late with that outfit, Ezra.” 

“If it’s not broken,” Ezra intimated primly, obediently following Crowley through a large oaken door. 

“Right right, I know. You’re welcome to wear whatever you want, of course, same as everyone else. Now, first things first, Angel—”

Ezra opened his mouth to object to the pet name, but thought better of it, sighing gustily through his nose and following Crowley as he swept into his spacious office. He dumped an armful of paperwork on the bare desk that he’d had moved in against the wall opposite his own, and spun to give Ezra a piercing glance. “We’re getting you a mobile.” 

“Absolutely not.” Ezra denied, mouth settling into a stubborn line. “I have gone forty years without having a mobile phone, I do not need to start now.” 

Crowley’s slim shoulders lifted as he heaved a long-suffering sigh, raising his eyes to the vaulted ceiling of his office. “Yes you do, Ezra. You’re my personal assistant and Chief Counsel now—I have to be able to contact you even when you _don’t_ have access to a home or office phone.” He saw Ezra open his mouth as if to argue, and waggled a finger in front of his face. “Nuh-uh, no arguments. Phone, or no deal.” 

It left a bitter taste in Ezra’s mouth—he was not one to enjoy technology beyond his record player, access to digitized legal records, and the occasional cab ride to dinner—but sacrifices must be made for the sake of the job. “Very well,” he conceded, defeat heavy on his tongue. “Get me something that makes calls, check emails—that is _it,_ though, it doesn’t need to drive my car or wash my laundry or survive a ten meter submersion in the sea—phone calls, emails.” 

Crowley chuckled and fished a slim phone out of his back pocket. “Catch.” 

Ezra fumbled the catch, bobbling the black device back and forth between both hands before he cradled it to his chest. “This?” Dubiously, he thumbed the power button, peering down at it as the screen lit up with a familiar white logo. “It’s so…uncivilized.” 

“It’s the future, Angel, deal with it. My contact information is already programmed in, feel free to use it for whatever else you want so long as you answer my calls—it’s yours. No call limits, no text limits, no data limits.” He smirked. “I’ll go easy on you and save texting for next week.” 

“I’ll try to contain my gratitude,” Ezra said drolly, sliding through Crowley’s contact information and lifting an eyebrow as he read through the numerous contact numbers and email addresses listed. He bit his bottom lip for a moment, lost in thought, and then sighed in defeat. “Fine. Mobile phone. Got it. Now, what is my _actual_ job?” 

Crowley smiled. “Let me get my list…” 

Ezra kept his mouth shut as Crowley started rambling off a list of various and sundry tasks and duties—but he also kept the phone. 

* * *

“Red or black?” 

“Black.” 

“Jeans or slacks?” 

“For you? Jeans.” 

They stood in Crowley’s cavernous closet, which managed to encompass approximately the same square footage as Ezra’s entire studio flat. The closet, if it could indeed be called such, included two side-by-side entry doors, floor-to-ceiling shelves of jeans and tee shirts and ties, a remote-controlled, seemingly-endless rack of suits, and a 70” _television_ mounted on the wall under a plush chaise lounge. 

Ezra’s jaw had dropped upon entering, though in hindsight he should have expected nothing less from the man who never seemed to wear exactly the same outfit twice and spent at least twenty minutes in front of the mirror each morning as he got ready for the day. “This is all yours?” he had asked, eyes wide and staring as he gaped at the closet. 

“Yup,” Crowley had answered, popping the ‘p’ and waggling his eyebrows. “Have a dresser full of my workout clothing and underwear as well.” 

Ezra currently had his back turned to the closet at large, and stood staring pointedly at one wall of dark clothing—that inarguably cost more than he would be worth his entire life—while his employer got himself dressed. 

“Tie?” 

Ezra snorted and shrugged helplessly at the self of designer jeans at his nose. “Means you would have to button your shirt all the way and not leave the top ‘artfully undone’, or whatever it is you say all the time.” 

“Fair.” 

Fabric rustled as Crowley finished getting himself ready for the day. “Alright, Angel, I’m decent, I promise.” 

“I don’t believe you have _ever_ truly been decent, my dear,” Ezra retorted, the endearment slipping out without thought. _Ah,_ he thought, _whoops._ He spun to give Crowley an apprising look. “Boots?” 

Humming in agreement, Crowley slid into his trademark black snakeskin boots, the slight heel lifting him even taller above his new assistant. Ezra deemed the already-established height difference patently unfair, and when one added in the skin-tight jeans, fitted black dress shirt, and the curling rusty hair peeking from the artfully-unbuttoned vee of Crowley’s shirt, the man was a walking sexual indecency case. 

“Here.” Ezra handed Crowley his trademark sunglasses—he still thought it was a veritable shame that the man’s light sensitivity meant he must keep his beautiful eyes covered most of the time. He sighed, wadded up his growing ball of inappropriate thoughts, and stuffed them deep into his mental trash can. “Alright, sir, let’s go face the day.” 

And so it went.

One day turned into two, and then three, and then before Ezra knew it a week, and then two had passed. 

It was a veritable whirlwind of events—every time Ezra thought he had a moment of down time, or thought that he was going _home_ for the day, Crowley dragged him into _something._

True to his word, however, Crowley had signed off on Ezra’s little library, sparing it from demolition and even contributing the funds to get the community landmark re-staffed and back on its feet. Ezra had barely believed it when Anathema had called one Tuesday morning, giddy with excitement, to tell him the news. 

“He did _what?”_ Ezra exclaimed, eyes wide. He held his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, juggling a large mug of coffee and a stack of legal paperwork in both hands as he scrabbled at the door to his office with the hand that clasped the paper. 

“He saved it Ezra, he actually did it! Stopped development of that entire sector, paid to conserve the community center, the library, that little recreational facility with the old pool—they’re staffed, funded, and cycling through more people than ever before.” 

Ezra felt his heart flutter treacherously in his chest. “I cannot believe it,” he said quietly, half to himself. “He actually kept his word and saved the library.” The doorknob finally gave, and he gave a quiet sigh of relief as the wooden door swung open. “Aha. I have to go, my dear,” he said to Anathema, giving Crowley a nod and a small smile as he staggered into the office, “but I’ll come by later and have supper with you and Newt, alright?” 

Anathema chirped a reply, managing to elicit a promise from Ezra to also review floral options and venues before she finally hung up. 

“Plans tonight, Angel?” Crowley asked with a smirk.

“With my engaged friends, yes,” Ezra rolled his eyes. “Here.” He thrust the coffee toward Crowley, who eyed it as one does a snake poised to strike. 

“Is that espresso, or decaf?” 

There was a pointed pause as Ezra gave him his patented ‘ _Really_?!” look. “Decaf should never be an option,” the blonde answered primly. He nodded at already-prepared steaming mug of black coffee. “That’s the strongest I could make it.” 

Crowley smiled, golden eyes sparkling behind his half-tilted sunglasses, and seized the handle of the coffee cup. “Oh I _agree_ , Angel,” he replied, gulping down half of its dark contents with a satisfied sigh. “Not that _you_ care about coffee—I think you drink tea more than you do water.” 

“Tea is the superior option,” Ezra retorted, “and still most definitely caffeinated. _You_ might do well to drink it more often. I think you would do well to curtail the caffeine intake some mornings—or not,” he amended, chuckling slightly at Crowley’s disgruntled stare. 

“Nope,” Crowley declared, popping the ‘p’ and grinning broadly, his teeth a white slash against his face. “Caffeine and I are in a committed relationship—about the only one I seem to be able to keep”. He shook his head, a lock of fiery hair breaking free of its careful coif to curl at his temple. 

“Nngh.” Grimacing, he raised his hands to his head, smoothing the strand back into place. “And of course I don’t have a—“ 

He broke off as Ezra extended a mirror toward him. “Aha, perfect!” Seizing the handle, he raised the glass to his face and peered into it, lips pursed as he smoothed his hands over his hair. “Better?” 

“Much.” Another eye roll. The bright locks had been perfect even with the errant strand—not that Ezra would _ever_ convey that to his employer. His ego was large enough without any additional encouragement. 

“Lovely.” Crowley set the mirror to the side of his desk and flopped back into his desk chair. It was a garish, monstrous thing, almost as tall as a man and ostentatiously stained with a gilt varnish, giving it a throne-like appearance that was only further supported by the tall, wine-red fabric backing. Crowley kicked his feet up on the desk, sliding his sunglasses down off of his nose and tossing them onto the varnished wood. “I have a massage scheduled for eleven, Angel,” he posited, amusing himself by flipping a coin through his long fingers. “My date had a conflict—care to join?” He waggled his eyebrows and struck a pose. 

Ezra snorted. “I don’t think so, sir, one of us should get some work done this morning.” Crowley had been going out of his way to attempt to tease Ezra into something beyond his usual stalwart composure, but so far his efforts had been met with a bland face, blasé replies, and exaggerated rolls of those baby-blue eyes. This time was no different, and Ezra seized the opening left by Crowley’s obvious disappointment to deftly refill the now-empty coffee cup and settle a few key memos in place next to Crowley’s pen. 

“Paperwork? You know I hate paperwork,” Crowley whined even as he grabbed his pen and obediently scrawled his name along the indicated lines. He groped for his coffee cup with his free hand, bringing it close to his face and inhaling with a deep sigh.

Amused despite himself, Ezra rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms behind his back, linking his fingers. He watched as his employer laid into the coffee with unrestrained relish, eyes fluttering closed in bliss as the dark ichor slid down his throat. Ezra shook his head, lips twitching. “You are incorrigible, sir,” he declared, reaching for the folder of paperwork he had left on his own desk. “Now, about that meeting you have at ten…” 

* * *

Some days later, Ezra staggered into his flat, bowed down under three boxes Crowley had tossed at him to sort through “when he got a moment”.   


“The entire point of ‘going home’ for the day,” he huffed, shouldering open the door and stumbling through the frame, “is that you don’t have to _work.”_ He let the boxes fall to the floor with a loud _thunk_ and shoved the door shut behind him. “But nooooo, _my_ boss gives me homework assignments.” He punched the top box so that the flap gave, and then ripped off the packing tape that sealed it. 

“Lovely,” he grimaced, “paperwork that looks almost as old as _me.”_

“What’s that good-for-nothing man done now?” Tracy’s voice carried easily through the hallway and closed door from her flat next door—where she had evidently been very unsubtly waiting for her friend to return home—and her disapproval was evident even through multiple layers of drywall and plaster. “I still can’t believe you’re _working_ for the bastard.” 

All but collapsing into his favorite armchair, Ezra offered a helpless shrug that she could not see. “He’s actually not that bad, Tracy,” he defended, simultaneously questioning his mental state. “Bit needy, no boundaries, _terrible_ flirt, and absolutely no grasp of reality, but….” 

“Works his way in, does he?” Tracy’s voice grew instantly louder as she pushed through Ezra’s unlocked door. 

“Unfortunately,” Ezra grumbled, plunging a hand into one box and extracting a wad of invoices and memos. He flipped pensively through the first ten or twenty. “Junk, junk, junk, irrelevant, junk—“ Sighing, he cast the papers to the side. “My employer is a packrat,” he lamented, falling back onto his homely tartan sofa. 

“But a _handsome_ packrat,” Tracy pointed out, sitting beside Ezra and resting a consoling hand on his knee. “Nothing wrong with being able to appreciate the view while you’re at work.” 

Ezra’s mouth opened, objection sitting ready on his tongue, and then snapped shut into a wry line—Tracy knew him far too well to believe any words to the contrary. Regardless of what he told his mind, he absolutely could not deny that Anthony Crowley was absolutely, _delectably_ gorgeous. With his tall, leanly-muscled frame, flaming hair, and exotic, expressive eyes, Crowley rendered every man and woman in the vicinity all but mute—Ezra included. 

He sighed. “This is true,” he admittedly, trying to ignore the way Tracy’s eyes lit up knowingly, “but he is also my employer, has the attention span of a hamster, and ethically and emotionally on the other side of the _world_ from me.” He fiddled with his wristwatch band, sliding the end in and out of its loop. “So, my dear, no matter _how_ gorgeous he is, he is absolutely off limits.” 

Tracy patted him on the shoulder. “The cards tell me differently,” she said knowingly, “but you’ll see that for yourself soon enough.” She gave him a broad smile. “Curry? I have a load of takeout in the flat if you’re interested.” 

Ezra hummed some version of assent, and glared into the box of paper at his feet as Tracy pranced out to collect the food. 

“Damnit,” he swore. “Why does he have to be kind and infuriatingly _gorgeous,_ as well as simply infuriating?!” 

The box offered no answers, and he sighed again. 

* * *

Days bled into weeks as time slid onward, Ezra and Crowley settling into some sort of variation of a routine—albeit a routine punctuated with _non_ -routine calls at all times of the day.

Ezra settled into his new role with remarkable ease and aplomb, for all that it was as far off the radar from his career goals as he could have possibly landed. Anthony Crowley was an absolutely impossible boss—simultaneously needy and charm, and all but impossible to deny anything. Ezra found himself called from bed in the middle of the night to choose a brand of toilet paper, summoned from supper with Newt and Anathema to sit in on a phone call with a foreign partner, and even, on one memorable occasion, physically yanked up from his own favorite armchair in his _own_ apartment by a grinning Mr. Crowley to be manhandled into the Bentley and dragged into a wardrobe fitting of his own.

“But I don’t _need_ new clothes!” Ezra had protested, disgruntled, as Crowley dragged him by the elbow into the shop. 

“Says the man who’s wardrobe is at least one hundred years out of date,” Crowley had urged, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Angel, at least get a few nice things. You can still wear your fuddy-duddy vest and coat and pocket watch, but every now and then your duties _will_ require a bit more of a…modern appearance.” 

Mention of work had been enough to quell Ezra’s remaining arguments, and he had sighed and allowed Crowley and the shop clerk to stuff him into all manner of business and formal wear until long past the sun had set. 

True to his word, the business mogul spared Ezra’s library, immortalizing it with a careless wave of his fingers as he shredded the demolition orders. It had Ezra simultaneously relieved and angered, a shock of uncharacteristically bitter, icy-white rage trickling down his spine at Crowley’s blatant disregard for the “little” things. 

“It still doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” he had asked sadly, looking up at Crowley. His blue eyes were heavy with some emotion Crowley could not identify. As he stood there with his shock of white-blond hair hovering around his head and his cherubic face, he looked like a displaced angel. Crowley felt his disapproval like a punch to the gut. 

“I—should it?” he stammered, running a hand through his hair and turning to pace over to the floor-to-ceiling window next to his desk. He pressed his nose to the glass, staring down forty feet into the bowels of the city below. “I don’t think _anything_ means anything to me, Angel, I don’t think it can.” He barked out a helpless laugh and turned to face his employee, arms crossed defensively in front of his chest. “I’m trying though, aren’t I? Even if I don’t see _why_ , I’m taking your suggestions.” His golden eyes gleamed in the morning sunlight. “Does that count for anything?” 

Tension bled from Ezra’s shoulders as he relaxed his defensive stance, his gaze brightening slightly as he took in his disheveled boss. “I suppose it does,” he agreed, lips curving slightly upward in a subtle peace offering. “We’re working on it.” He stepped over to Crowley’s side, propelling the businessman into his throne-like desk chair. “Now sit, and sign that stack,” he ordered, indicating the towering pile of paperwork with a sharp jerk of his head. 

Obediently, Crowley seized his fountain pen and started scrawling his name in a great, looping signature, shuffling through documents with near-inhuman speed. He hummed to himself, hearing Ezra settle down behind him at his own desk—choice of chair much more modest—and begin shuffling through his own pile of work. 

“Now, about this pending divorce,” Ezra hedged, and Crowley could hear the questions in his voice, left gathering dust for the last few weeks as they focused on establishing a daily rhythm and routine. 

Grunting his assent, Crowley cocked an ear in Ezra’s direction and set his pen to the side. 

“First marriage? Second? Are you planning any more? What was the reason for the divorce? Infidelity, on your end or hers—or his?” Ezra reeled off a list of questions, steeling himself for Crowley’s responses. “I’m sorry to sound so impersonal, but if you want me to handle this case _on top_ of everything else, I need as many details as you can provide.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of his notebook. “We’ve avoided talking about it, as I rather think you wish it already behind you, but I’m afraid we need to, my dear.” 

Crowley hummed low in his throat and grimaced before kicking his chair back from his desk and rubbing his eyes. “You’re right, of course, angel,” he agreed. He ran his hands restlessly though his iron-oxide hair, tugging at it and turning it into a veritable birds nest. “I met and married Carmine Zingerberg about ten years ago—wasn’t _planning_ to marry her, she lied and told me she was pregnant and I got all _honorable._ Once we established that we hated each other, it just seemed easier to continue on, live to our own ends, and have some fantastic sex.” He cut a side-eyed glance at Ezra, trying to gauge the other man’s reaction. “She cheated on me with every man to catch her eye, I was mostly faithful but had a fling with a waiter last year.” 

Ezra’s face remained carefully blank, but his heart gave a traitorous, pleased lurch at the indication that Crowley’s tastes ran in multiple directions. 

Heaving a sigh, Crowley shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Now she says she has _proof_ that I slept with him, and she’s after every penny I have. Bitch.”

“Mmm.” Ezra tapped the end of his pen against the desk while he thought. “But if _we_ had proof that _she_ had cheated as well, it would render her argument null.” He nodded. “I think we can make this work, my dear. Let me get cracking on it, and don’t worry about a thing.” 

Crowley arched a delicate eyebrow. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He fell back against his throne-like chair, sagging against the wine-colored upholstery and kicking his feet up on top of the desk. “You’re something else, Angel. Only here two months and I already don’t know what I would do without you. I just don’t know how to _do_ this,” he agonized, tipping the chair back on its hind legs and stretching his harms out behind his head. 

Ezra barely shifted from his position at his own desk, refusing to acknowledge Crowley’s melodramatics until the expectant pause stretched slightly toward the other side of awkward. Finally he sighed and took off his glasses, setting them to the side as he cracked his neck and winced. “How to do _what,_ exactly?” he asked, just a touch peevishly. 

“How to be an _adult,”_ Crowley complained, kicking out from his desk with one designer boot and spinning in a circle—it had proven a considerable surprise to Ezra when he discovered the monstrous desk chair had been equipped with a swivel base and _wheels_ , of all things. He made quite the picture, hair and arms akimbo as he whirled in a circle in his designer suit. 

There was a long pause as Ezra deliberated which response hanging on his tongue would be most prudent _without_ getting him fired in the process. “That’s why you have me, Crowley,” he finally said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Although far be it for me to take much credit at all, you’ve managed passably well by yourself up until _this_ point of your life.” 

Long fingers flashed through the air as Crowley fluttered his fingers, as elegant and delicate as a leaf caught in a breeze. “That’s _business,_ though,” he drawled, rolling his head in a manner that let Ezra know full and well that underneath his sunglasses the man’s eyes were rolling as well. “But these day-to-day things? I’m not designed to make decisions like that.” 

“Crowley,” Ezra said, slowly and with great patience, “most of the decisions I make for you are menial at best, outside of my legal counsel.” 

“Bah,” Crowley waved away Ezra’s objections. “You’re the best thing to happen to me _or_ to this company!” 

The fact of the matter was that he was quite correct. Every employee on Crowley’s payroll, from the newest member of the janitorial staff to the CFO of the company, could attest that the company ran much more efficiently, that Crowley was in much better spirits, and that not once in the history of Eden Industries had there ever been a more organized workflow in place. 

Humble as he was, Ezra simply blushed and offered an awkward shrug, lips curling into a boyish smile. “Do you truly think so?” 

“Oh, Angel, I _know_ it,” Crowley declared. “Quite frankly, I don’t know what I would do _without_ you by this point.” 

And, despite Crowley’s teasing tone, despite the amused smile that played about his lips, Ezra had the uncanny sense that Crowley absolutely, wholeheartedly _meant_ it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra helps Crowley finalize his divorce, and both men begin to realize just how much they are coming to mean to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the continued hits, kudos, and comments! I'm having a ball working on this, and it's lovely to know others are enjoying it as well!

“Absolutely not.” Carmine Zingiber, formerly Crowley, spat, mouth drawing together in a tight frown as she attempted to assassinate the two men across the table with her eyes alone. “Twice the alimony, or no deal. The bastard cheated on _me.”_ She was hell in red, her immaculately-pressed pantsuit tailored perfectly to frame her femme-fatale figure. She wore a black scarf about her neck, the contrasting dark-and-light effect of the fabric against her pale complexion even more dramatically offset by the hair—a red even more striking than that of her soon-to-be-ex husband’s—that hung in waves about her face.

The ex in question sat—or rather reclined—beside Ezra on the opposite side of the table, seemingly the picture of perfect nonchalance. With his black-booted feet kicked up on the surface of the mahogany table and one arm slung across the back of his fabric-backed chair, only the muscle ticking in his forehead betrayed the fact he would prefer to be just about anywhere else. He arched one perfectly-groomed eyebrow and stared straight at his estranged wife from behind his dark glasses. “And I would absolutely do it again in a heartbeat,” he drawled, words laden with candy-coated menace and poorly-concealed distaste. “You know full and well we haven’t been _anything_ in years.” HIs lip curled. “And to tell it true, you weren’t much at all even then.”

Even from where he sat across the admittedly wider-than-usual wooden table, Ezra could feel the waves of wrath emanating from the slender woman. The air crackled with tension, the room filled with a sense of trepidation not unlike that that accompanies an unlit fuse amidst a gas leak. Unfortunately, Ezra knew full and well there was essentially the equivalent of a _flamethrower_ waiting with these two. He winced. No time like the present to spark some flames. “Ms. Zingiber,” he began, hesitantly, pulling out a folder that contained the prenup she had signed with Crowley some months prior to their wedding, “your prenup—“

“Is _invalid,”_ she hissed, and Ezra visibly recoiled at the venom in her words. Even prepared for verbal abuse and ire directed specifically at his person, he was unprepared for the amount of malice packed into her voice. Crowley had _married_ this harpy? “It was rendered thus when this inconsiderate, unfaithful _wretch_ of a soon-to-be-ex-husband cheated on me with that good-for-nothing _waiter_ at our favorite restaurant.”

“ _Your_ favorite restaurant,” Crowley replied, lifting one eyebrow and smirking. He remained cool as a cucumber, entirely unfazed by the incendiary glare his words incited. “I confess I only ever went to see that lovely young Leonardo—“ He paused and glanced over at Ezra, eyes wide and earnest even behind their lenses. “Struggling artist, he’s been waiting tables to make ends meet while he chases gallery previews, and he has the most _beautiful_ blue eyes—“

Carmine snarled and lunged halfway across the table before her own representing attorney could catch her and pull her back down to her own seat. His broad arms wrapped around her entire torso as he pressed her against his chest and strong-armed her up and over the table. Evidently it was _not_ their first rodeo as client and attorney. “Carmine,” he said warningly, glaring at her, “You’ll not get _any_ of his money if you kill him before a settlement agreement is signed.”

She bared teeth that more closely resembled fangs and settled back in her chair, crossing her arms primly in front of her. “Very well, Sable, continue.”

The divorce attorney sighed and pressed the knuckles of one hand to his forehead. “Fell, you had more to say?” He fixed Ezra with a dark stare, as though daring him to incite Carmine to further ire. It seemed he only possessed so much patience, and was quickly reaching the end of what little he had left.

Ezra gulped. “Er, yes.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the folder. “ _As_ I was saying, your prenup agreement states quite plainly that you receive at least a certain amount of Crowley’s assets as alimony in the circumstance of proven infidelity.”

Carmine made a ‘go-on’ motion, frowning irritably. They had run this topic into the ground over the course of their so-called telephone “negotiations”, as it was the foundation of her entire argument. It was evident from the narrowing of her eyes that little patience remained to discuss it further.

“However,” Ezra continued, pulling out a _second_ folder and slipping a series of digital photos and printed stills from security footage out of the pocket, “ _these_ indicate—and quite explicitly, I might add—that you were _also_ in violation of your wedding vows, which renders any pre-existing agreement null and void. Crowley is not required to concede _any_ assets to you if you _both_ are proven to have been unfaithful during the course of your marriage.”

There was a momentary pause in which Crowley peered quite interestedly at the images in Ezra’s hands. “Never seen you quite in that position before, dear,” he said acerbically, pursing his lips. “Or _that_ one, for that matter. And with so many different men.” He pouted. “You might have asked me to join in, now _that_ would have been so much more fun than anything else we ever did!” Thumbing through the photos, he snickered. “Never seen _that_ done outside of some really terrible porn, though.” He snickered, kicking his feet out wide beneath the table and lazily stretching one arm out across the backs of his and Ezra’s chairs, all but reclining in his seat. “How absolutely scandalous.”

Ezra counted one beat of silence, then two, and _then_ Carmine screeched, face quickly turning a red to match her jacket and trousers. “You…no—You rat _bastard!_ “

Quickly, Ezra threw up a hand to forestall the oncoming storm, glowering at Sable as the man failed to move to stop his erstwhile client. “However, Crowley is willing to offer the originally-established amount of alimony on the condition that you walk out the door today and remove yourself entirely from his life.” He canted his head slightly and stared across the table, his expression perhaps a _touch_ too smug than what that of a practicing professional should be. “And perhaps the next time you decide to, what is it the kids say, _get it on_ with a collection of Crowley’s head contractors over the span of a few years, you might be more conscientious in your choice of room, surface, and visibility to existing security cameras and CCTV.”

Crowley laughed aloud at that, a quick, sharp bark of mirth that made Ezra’s insides do a quick corkscrew. “Tell it like it is, Ezra,” he snickered. “I confess, I’m quite _floored_ by the turn this appointment has taken—do you think we might need to _table_ this discussion?” He whipped off his sunglasses, dangling them between the index finger and thumb of his left hand, golden eyes alight with malicious glee. “Come on, _dear_ , I know I’ve had plenty of unorthodox sex, but at least _my_ ass was never pressed to the scanner of the fax machine.”

“How _dare_ you?!” Carmine shrieked, her remaining shreds of composure evaporating. She lunged across the table, scrabbling for Crowley’s boots and sending papers everywhere. “Lying—cheating—rich— _bastard!”_

 _“_ Carmine _no!”_ Sable finally moved, diving after her and catching her about the waist, all but hurling her back into her seat. He pinned her in place with his bulk, twisting his head to stare over at Ezra. “We’ll take it,” he sighed, rolling his eyes, and Ezra breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Do you have the paperwork ready?”

It took a moment for the words to register—Ezra’s heart had still not caught up to the present moment after the adrenaline spike incited by Carmine’s attack—but he nodded. “I do.”

The irate woman’s eyes flashed, her head tossing back and forth as she struggled to break free of Sable’s iron grasp. “That money is _mine,”_ she hissed, _“mine!”_

Wood scraped against tile as Crowley pushed his chair back, swinging his feet down to the floor and rising to his full, impressively lanky height. “Fuck it,” he drawled, “I’m done with this. I’ll give you double if you erase yourself from my life. We sign today, we’re divorced for realsies, you get the money and go, and that’s it.” He cocked a hip out, resting his hand on it as he glanced at Ezra. “Can you modify the paperwork to make it happen?”

Blinking, Ezra nodded. “I actually came with a copy of the agreement drawn up to that purpose,” he replied, trying and failing not to roll his eyes as he retrieved yet _another_ folder from his satchel. “Because _somehow_ I wasn’t expecting this fiasco to go as planned.” He rolled his eyes. “Imagine that—I was right.” He thrust agreement and pen across the table to Carmine. “Sign the first page, initial the second, and sign and date the third, and we’re official,” he instructed, steepling his fingers and pressing his forefingers to the bridge of his nose as he prayed for an end to this circus.

Carmine grinned, catlike, and reached for the pen. “Sold.”

* * *

“I cannot _believe_ you gave her the money! That self-righteous, self-serving… _bitch._ ” Ezra exclaimed as they left the attorney’s office, Crowley swaggering at his side. “They would have signed for the original alimony, you ninny, why did you give her what she wanted?”

Crowley shrugged. “She’d have kept pestering me otherwise,” he declared, shrugging. “God—Satan— _someone_ knows I have more than enough money, I won’t even notice this chunk is gone. And, if it keeps her away from me for the rest of my life, the price is well worth it.”

Ezra shook his head. No matter how much time he spent in Crowley’s presence or around the money that dominated Crowley’s lifestyle, he would never be able to reconcile himself with the man’s utterly uncaring approach to the management of his massive fortune. “How on earth did you even marry her in the first place?” he asked. He could not picture two people more ill-suited for each other. Carmine struck him as the type to not settle down, flitting from fling to fling and preferring a certain type of man that Crowley most certainly was _not._ And Crowley, well…Ezra was still trying to pinpoint what type of man Crowley was, but he wagered it was not the type to willingly settle down with Carmine.

Crowley shrugged again. “We were younger and stupid,” he said, running his long fingers through his red hair. “Er, stupid- _er,”_ he amended, as Ezra raised his eyebrows dubiously. “Had a one-night stand, she came back and said she was pregnant. When I cottoned on and realized that she wasn’t, it just seemed like too much effort to officially divorce by that point, so we…made it work.” He shrugged. “It was basically implied that we were separated and could do whatever with whomever, and I’d keep giving her an allowance each month to keep her out of my hair. Eventually she decided she’d get more going for the jugular and trying to divorce officially, and here we are!”

Ezra blinked. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yup.” Crowley popped the ‘p’ in Ezra’s face, then grabbed the patched elbow of his tan jacket and tugged him down the sidewalk. It was an unseasonably warm day in early spring, the wind barely blowing and a blue sky peeping through between the towering skyscrapers. “I’m hungry, Angel, let’s get food.”

Eyes rolling skyward, Ezra allowed himself to be dragged down the street, speeding up his steps to match Crowley’s rapid pace. “Crowley, I can’t keep letting acting as your divorce attorney,” Ezra said firmly. “My background is _not_ in that sort of civil law, nor do I particularly _enjoy_ coming between disputes between vindictive former spouses.”

“Well, obviously you won’t need to represent me any more,” Crowley said in a patently patient ‘well duh’ tone of voice, “since I am no longer married.” He patted Ezra genially on the back. “Besides, Angel, I thought you handled yourself with great aplomb.”

“You know what I mean!” Ezra exclaimed. He was so agitated he inadvertently stumbled into the path of a group of dog walkers, legs and leashes going every which way. “Bollocks!” It took him some minutes to extricate himself from the self-caused commotion. When he finally did, spouting apologizes and dodging slobbery dog kisses, he was struck by the sight of Crowley, bent nearly double on the sidewalk and nearly in tears with laughter.

“You—that—Angel, you look _ridiculous_ ,” Crowley guffawed, wheezing. He straightened and shot Ezra another one of those brilliant smiles, all pearly-white teeth and genuine humor. “C’mere.” He seized Ezra by the upper arm and dragged him closer, bending to brush dog hair off of his trouser legs.

Ezra froze as Crowley’s elegant fingers swept across his thighs, feeling the delicate skim of his fingertips across skin that was, even through a thick layer of fabric, suddenly far too sensitive. “I think you’ve got it all,” he said in a strangled voice, inwardly cursing himself for how he trembled beneath Crowley’s touch.

Crowley squeezed gently and then released him with a distracted—and quite obviously fake—cough, uncoiling himself to his full height with a crack of several abused vertebrae. “Right,” he drawled, snapping so quickly back to his typical unruffled demeanor that Ezra wanted to smack him. “Lunch?”

Ezra hesitated even as his stomach gave a low, traitorous rumble.

“On me,” Crowley promised, extending his hand. “Oh, come on, Angel, I promise I didn’t mean to laugh.”

 _It wasn’t the laughter_ , Ezra wanted to tell him, lips pressing together to prevent the words from bursting forth. He _knew_ he had looked ridiculous, that was not the issue at all. Heaven, he would have laughed at himself as well. No, rather, it was the utter ease with which Crowley touched him, the sense of familiarity and warmth that had erupted at his touch, and the fact that Ezra _very_ much wished for him to do it again.

He _also_ wanted nothing more than to yank his arm away, retreat to his flat, and spend the rest of the afternoon drinking and firmly reminding himself why his employer was very much Off Limits. Still, he was effectively on constant call, and the thought of asking for the day off and managing _not_ to disclose his reason for doing was marginally more terrifying than remaining and facing Crowley—not to mention the fact that Crowley would mange to construct some kind of life-altering emergency and come bother him at home regardless.

Sighing, he nodded and allowed Crowley to seize his forearm and drag him along t _o_ a nearby courtyard where several food vendors had set up shop. He watched bemusedly as Crowley swaggered over to a hot dog stand. “We’ll take two with ketchup, mustard, relish, and—“ he paused and looked at Ezra, “Onion?” At Ezra’s nod, Crowley gave the vendor his most charming smile. “And onion,” he concluded definitively.

Obligingly, the man handed over the food. Crowley passed Ezra his, the other man reaching out a hand to accept the offering as Crowley passed it over to him. “I need to be able to do my job, which is, effectively, doing all of the work that needs to be done so that you don’t have to do it.” He shook his head and took a bite of his food, frowning as a stray blob of mustard slid from bun to the corner of his lips. “And _hot dogs_ , Crowley, really?” He swiped ineffectively at the mustard, mouth twisting in distaste. “Not that they aren’t terribly scrummy in their own way, but they are so terribly _undignified.”_

“Keep the change,” Crowley muttered to the vendor, slipping the man two £50 notes. He ignored stuttering exclamations of gratitude and Ezra’s raised eyebrows, instead seizing a napkin and dabbing gently at the yellow dot resting just below Ezra’s lower lip that the man’s own questing finger had missed. He patted Ezra affectionately on the cheek with his free hand and then stuffed the napkin into a bin. “I’ll take you out for sushi tonight, Angel, I promise.” Ignoring Ezra’s incredulous stare—and Ezra had yet to decide if said incredulity stemmed more from the mustard or the entirely _inappropriate_ promise of supper—and devoured his own food in four neat bites. Swallowing, he swiped a hand across his lips. “Well.” He patted Ezra lightly on his hot-dog-free hand. “Seeing as how I don’t plan on dealing with _any_ more divorces—or relationship drama at _all_ , for that matter—you should be free and clear to perform your duties as freely and capably as you see fit.”

Ezra harrumphed, trying to mentally eradicate the memory of how his skin had tingled at the merest hint of Crowley’s skin near his mouth. “I see the looks all these young, flamboyant things throw your way,” he countered, trying to ignore the wrench in his heart as he thought of all the beautiful people who hung caught in the orbit of Crowley’s rather lively social circle.

“Bah.” The real estate mogul shrugged one lean shoulder, whirling to stroll back down along the sidewalk. He shoved his hands as deep into the pockets of his suit as the designer cut would allow, hips waggling in a snakelike motion that should have by all accounts defied the known laws of physics. “I don’t know that I’m entirely that person any more.”

Offering a noncommittal noise—and ignoring the way his treacherous heart gave a soft, hopeful pulse—Ezra slid into place at Crowley’s side, pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time. “It’s only half-one,” he announced, with some surprise, looking up the few inches difference between them. “I thought that would take far longer than what it did.”

“Helps when you give in, Angel,” Crowley said cheerfully, spinning to launch his food wrapper into the same bin that had caught the mustard-napkin. He paused. “I don’t suppose—“

Ezra snickered. “I suppose those accounts we need to review—and that paperwork that _you_ need to sign—can wait another half hour or so. We haven’t been to feed your ducks in a while, have we, my dear?”

(They were, in fact, quite literally Crowley’s ducks, as the man had purchased them some months prior and released them into the pond at the park, and had been dragging Ezra there to feed them on a near-weekly basis since the inception of their contract.)

Stepping back to let Crowley take the led, Ezra gave a little bow and a flourish of his arms. ”To Saint James?”

It should have been criminal to derive such pleasure from seeing one’s employer smile, but if it was Ezra decided then and there that he would gladly go to prison. Crowley’s smile could have powered a generator, a 10,000-watt effervescence that radiated outward and caught him up in its infectiousness. He found himself grinning back in return—entirely unaware that Crowley currently entertained similar thoughts about his _own_ angelic glow—and extended his arm. “Shall we, sir?”

Crowley’s hand detoured to smack Ezra lightly on the back of the head. “None of that nonsense,” he growled, wrapping his hand around Ezra’s forearm and squeezing. “It’s only Crowley, and will only ever _be_ Crowley. ‘Sir’ makes me feel all… _responsible.”_

Summoning every scrap of patience he possessed, while at the same time doing a terrible job of masking his amusement, Ezra nudged Crowley’s side with his elbow. “Yes, we can’t have that, can we? Heaven help it if the boss actually feels like he is in charge.” He reached into his coat and fished out a rather squashed parcel of bread that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there. “Now, ducks?”

* * *

“So, _Ezra,”_ Anathema drawled, slinging an arm around her friend and all but dragging him through the threshold of the flat she shared with Newt. True to their unique blend of personalities, the living space of the small one-bedroom was a study of contrast, littered with spell books, cookbooks, an entire suite of the “For Dummies” collection that could only belong to Newt, and decorated with everything from occult talismans to hanging bundles of dried herbs to a large, seemingly original Warhol over the sofa.

There was a large wok full of curry simmering on the stove, and Ezra’s stomach gave a loud rumble as the delicious scent assailed his nose. Anathema grinned, dancing away from him to stir their dinner. “Any updates on your dreamy not-boyfriend development-mogul employer?”

Ezra huffed, turning up his nose despite knowing she could not see him. “No.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook by the door with his shoulder bag. “There is _nothing_ to report on that end, nor will there _ever_ be.”

“What- _ever,_ ” Anathema scoffed. She gave the curry a final turn, turned the burner beside it on to warm a pot of water for tea, and then sashayed back to Ezra, pulling him into the open living area. She gave him a gentle push until he fell back onto the cushion. “You know you want a piece of that gorgeous man-slut of a boss of yours.”

“I do _not_ need this from you, too,” Ezra told her. “I get enough of it from Tracy, I don’t need it from you as well.” He leaned back against the plush back of the couch, hand raising thoughtfully to the back of his neck. “Besides, he hasn’t really been ‘on the prowl’ so to speak, lately.”

“Oh?” Anathema arched one delicately-shaped eyebrow. “I thought he had quite the reputation.”

“He did—he _does_ ,” Ezra amended. He undid the knot of his bowtie, letting it hang around his shoulders, and ran his hand agitatedly through his hair. “But he really hasn’t been _acting_ on it—it’s the strangest thing. When I first started, he would flirt with anything and everything that had the barest hint of a sexual identity and gave him the right sideways look. _Now?_ ” He shrugged, bemused. “He barely even turns his head when someone blatantly comes onto him. We had a girl the other day literally throw herself into his lap at lunch, and all he did was pick her up, hand her fifty quid, and ask for another table.”

“Maybe he has someone else he’s set his sights on,” Newt offered helpfully, coming in from the kitchen juggling a tray with three steaming bowls of curry and teacups to match. “And he’s just choosing not to let his eyes wander so much any more.” He gave Ezra a pointed look and then grinned bashfully as the other man glared. “Or perhaps not,” he said amiably, chuckling as Anathema rose to help him with his overloaded burden. “Either way, food’s on.”

They dove into their food in a comfortable silence, Newt and Anathema sharing amused glances over their bowls when they thought Ezra wasn’t looking. He made a point to ignore them, concentrating on his food instead, moving his chopsticks from his bowl to his mouth in a near-mechanical manner as he grumbled.

“Your auras are compatible,” Anathema said offhandedly after some moments, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

Ezra narrowed his eyes. And here it was. He had known the discussion was coming—it seemed he couldn’t have _any_ time with either set of his close friends without one of them trying to convince him that Crowley had it bad for him, or he for Crowley.

“They _are_ ,” she insisted. “Your colors are absolutely always complimentary; any time you two are close to each other you are like two pieces of a matching set.”

“He is my employer,” Ezra said sternly, as much to himself as to his friends. “He is gorgeous, yes, and witty and kind, but he is also richer than any one man has the right to be, has _incredibly_ dubious morals, a questionable sense of business ethics, and probably wouldn’t look twice at me romantically anyway. I’m hardly his type.”

“And his type would be?”

Ezra sighed. “From what I saw today at our alimony settlement, gorgeous and even more gorgeous. His ex-wife is beautiful—fiendish by all accounts, but drop-dead-gorgeous—and the young man with whom he was caught having ‘relations’ is by all accounts equally striking.” He shook his head. “Why look at his frumpy assistant when he has access to any number of beautiful people?” He fiddled with the ends of his bowtie. “Besides,” he chirped, imbuing his words with a cheerfulness he certainly did not feel, “I really am not all that interested in him anyway. He is my employer, possibly something of a friend—but that is where my interest stops.”

Newt and Anathema shared a look and then shook their heads in tandem. “If you say so,” Newt said dubiously. “I still think he likes you more than he should, and you have it worse than you think, Ezra.”

The problem was, Ezra knew they were right. Crowley _was_ attractive, and he _was_ Ezra’s type, and Ezra _was_ interested—or would be, _if_ he didn’t work for him and _if_ he currently didn’t spend next to every waking moment with the man, essentially doing everything for him short of tying his shoes.

“Also,” Anathema added, managing to glare down her nose at him despite being at least a full head shorter, “you are gorgeous too, you know.”

“He would have to be blind not to notice how attractive you are, mate,” Newt agreed.

Ezra scoffed. “Hardly. I’m a bit stockier than ‘fit’, I dress like somebody’s great-grandfather, and I don’t exactly have the ‘darkly-mysterious’ good looks that seem to be all the rage in these times.”

“And _I_ still say that you are one fine specimen of a man,” Anathema declared stubbornly, poking him in the chest with the end of one chopstick. “And Crowley would have to be blind in both of those gorgeous eyes not to know it.”

Bemused, Ezra raised his eyebrows but refrained from offering further objective. He knew well that he was nowhere near anyone’s “ideal” catch. His last partner had told him as much when they separated, advising him to “maybe lift something other than a fork and perhaps buy a pair of blue jeans.” Problem was, Ezra has _happy_ with himself, and refused on principle to change for anyone, so he was stuck single and alone. Though it typically did not bother him a whit, seeing Crowley for hours on end for over half a year—and seeing the looks the man often exchanged with various and sundry passers-by and employees—had stirred some self-esteem issues he had thought long-since buried.

A shrill ring cut neatly through Ezra’s spiraling thoughts and he sighed, fishing in his trouser pocket for his mobile. “I despise this infernal thing,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as Crowley’s face smirking face grinned at him from the screen. He swiped the call open and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ezra, good to talk to you!” Crowley’s voice, made slightly tinny by the tiny speaker, rang out loudly against Ezra’s eardrums. He winced, moved it about a foot away from his head, and glared at the small device.

“And you, Crowley,” he said wryly. He raised his eyebrows as Anathema leaned forward to pluck the mobile from his fingers and thumb down the call volume. She nodded at Ezra, mimed holding the phone to her ear, and handed it back.

“Thank you,” he mouthed to her.

“So Angel,” Crowley began, and Ezra winced as he saw both Newt’s and Anathema’s eyes light up—he realized that they had never heard Crowley refer to him by the aggravating pet name that Crowley had ‘gifted’ him upon their initial meeting. He knew he would not be hearing the end of that any time soon.

“Yes?” Praying for patience, he pressed the fingertips of his free hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“I just accepted a last-minute dinner conference with the CEOs of Styx Development and Seven Days Contracting—I’ll need etiquette advice, a second opinion on my outfit, and counsel throughout to make sure I don’t put my foot in my mouth the way I did the _last_ time I dealt with those bastards. Have you eaten yet?”

Ezra looked sadly at his now-cold, nearly full bowl of curry. “Nothing substantial,” he replied, already halfway to his feet and bracing his phone against his shoulder. He darted forward to give Anathema a quick hug and Newt a pat on the shoulders as he began rattling off all the notes and documents Crowley would need to collect from the office before he left.

“I’ll see you at the dress fitting,” he mouthed to Anathema, throwing as many apologies at her as he could with his eyes while he continued to speak to Crowley.

She nodded, smiled to tell him it was alright and scooped up his bowl of food and darted to the kitchen, returning seconds later with a tightly-sealed Tupperware that she thrust into his hands. “Friday,” she told him, stabbing her finger into his face. “Final dress fitting. Six pm. Do not bail.”

Ezra held up three fingers in a mock salute— _picked that up from Crowley, didn’t you,_ his mind snarked. Ignoring his subconscious, he grabbed his coat and juggled it, the phone, and his food as he stumbled out the door.It seemed he had work to do.

Again.


	4. Chapter 4

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Crowley said casually, as Ezra thrust a pile of loan payments in his face to sign. He was casually dressed today, in dark jeans and a sinfully-tight black designer tee shirt—which was a phenomenon unto Ezra, who the bleeding hell made _designer_ casual wear—red hair piled on top of his head in a messy half-bun.

“And what is that? Here,” Ezra pointed at the bottom of one page, “and here.” He fought back a wave of smug satisfaction as Crowley signed unquestioningly, tongue poking out from between his teeth in concentration as he scrawled his chicken-scratch of a signature across the bottom pages.

“You’re trying to train me to be a better person. Trying to _change_ me. Trying to get me to do your good deeds.”

Ezra clucked in disagreement, doing his best to quash a satisfied smile. “Oh no, you’ve seen through my act,” he deadpanned, snatching the papers away. He shoved them into a folder and stuck them into his bag. “Crowley, I’ve been up front with you from the beginning—I wanted to save the library, and I wanted to try to save other buildings along the way. We’ve been doing that— _while_ we’ve been managing your empire and establishing new business partnerships, and mattress shopping, and attending football matches, and answering midnight phone calls together, and all sorts of other _fun.”_ He swung open the heavy wooden door to Crowley’s office pausing to allow Crowley to step through first. “And

“Yes, yes, you’ve shown me, haven’t you.” The other man was grinning outright now, a fond smile set on his face. Groaning, he stretched his arms above his head, one shoulder giving a lout, ungainly ‘pop’. “Sitting at this desk is going to be the death of me, Ezra, I’m all but falling apart.”

“Catch, you ingrate.”

Crowley lurched upright, barely managing to field the bottle of paracetamol Ezra had thrown.

“Take two with water, and perhaps don’t fall asleep at your desk in such contorted positions.” Ezra’s voice was dry. He knew well why Crowley’s shoulder was _actually_ sore, having caught the man only the afternoon prior curled up in the most uncomfortable pile of skin and fabric he had ever beheld, face planted firmly on his wadded-up suit jacket on the desk in front of his computer monitor.

They had been working together for nearly a year now, and Ezra was at a loss as to how to describe their current working relationship. He would never have dared to claim it at the beginning of this avalanche of events, but they worked _well_ together. Crowley, despite his grumbling to the contrary, _had_ in fact shifted his business practices, operating on a more conscientious development plan that inclined itself more toward a partnership with local communities rather than ostracizing them. He might wake Ezra up three times in a night with phone calls or FaceTime calls, but he _listened_ taking Ezra’s advice over any unrealistic inclination of his own. He whined, he grumbled, he pleaded—but he was always on time to his meetings, continued to keep his head in business deals, and maintained the ever-charming public persona that had so baffled Ezra in the first place.

How a man who could stand before a crowd of thousands at a benefit and turn his latest donation into a business opportunity, or who could take a room full of objecting stockholders and tempt them into his latest development plan could also manage to be completely and utterly dependent upon his consulting attorney was entirely beyond Ezra. Crowley could sell a man his _own_ car—and yet, here he was, asking Ezra what brand of toilet paper to purchase for his apartment.

“Ezra?”

With a rush, Ezra realized he was standing dumbly in the center of Crowley’s office, staring vacantly at the man with what had to be a ridiculous expression on his face. “Er, yes. Right. Well—“

“Go on,” Crowley said, waving him away. “You have that dress fitting with your friend Anathema, don’t you?”

“I do,” Ezra replied in amazement, secretly chuffed that Crowley had remembered anything outside of his own calendar.

“Go, have fun. I promise I won’t bother you with anything whatsoever.”

Ezra left with a knowing grin and a roll of his eyes, already fishing out his mobile to fumble through a text to Anathema.

Crowley only called twice.

\-- -- -- --

Before Ezra knew it, the wedding was upon them. The engagement had passed so much more quickly than he had ever thought it would—it seemed mere weeks since that day when he and Newt and Anathema had stood together and faced down the development crew. And now, a year had passed, and fall had come again, and his two best friends were about to be married and step down a path he had never taken.

It had been a _trying_ year, however, made so not only by the demands of his employment with Crowley, but the two dress fittings, three cake samplings, nearly a dozen different interviews with caterers, and one schedule change due to concern over available space at the chosen venue that Ezra was required to attend and/or coordinate as part of his obligations as the best man. After the logistical nightmare he had been forced to endure, Ezra was quite certain he would never be getting married, at least with a traditional wedding, should he ever find the appropriate partner.

Of course, the way that Anathema and Newt spun it, the formal wedding was not _their_ first choice either. It was in deference to their parents that they were even having a ceremony—Anathema had been all for signing papers at the courthouse and ducking out of town for a few weeks, and had initiated an hour-long tirade on the wasteful cliche that the wedding industry embodied. However, her mother would her nothing of it.

Ezra had been forced to referee three separate family arguments—with Newt and his mild-mannered mother spectating on the sideline—in which Anathema and her parents “negotiated” the complexity of the wedding ceremony. The final compromise resulted in a modest wedding set under a marquee in St. James park in the late spring, with a handful of friends of the bride and groom and a whole slew of family in attendance. Anathema’s parents happily footed the bill—something about a well-timed investment in Apple, she had muttered to Ezra—so she could not raise too much of a stink about the ordeal.

Now, she and Newt were just on a desperate sprint to the finish line, Ezra jogging along just as determinedly behind them. By this point, he was just as ready to see them wed and this mess behind them. Planning a wedding, he had discovered, was a headache. Planning a wedding while working for _Crowley_ was next to impossible.

Finally, _finally_ the wedding _was_ upon them _._ The day of the event itself dawned clear and bright with the promise of a warm fall breeze hovering in the air—much to the relief of all parties involved. It was difficult to believe a year had come and gone so quickly, the days and seasons bleeding into one-another in rapid succession.

In preparation for his friends’ big day, Ezra took the day off—the _entire_ day, no contact, no calls, no _anything._ He had marched into Crowley’s office, mouth set in a resolute line, and blurted out his request in a jumbled mess. “I need—that is—I know I am contractually technically always on call—but Crowley—“

Crowley had flung up a hand with a grin, halting Ezra’s stuttering attempt at an explanation. “Say no more, Angel,” he had declared, shoving his chair back from his desk and rising with a flourish. “If it’s a day off you want, it’s a day off you will have!”

It was, Ezra had realized, the first such day he had taken all for himself in the entire time he had worked for Crowley. It was also _obscenely_ past due.

“Now, I am—what is it the kids say, ‘on the grid?’—for the entire day, Crowley.” Ezra was stumbling through his office, flinging papers at random into his bag as he quickly tried to close out the inevitable last-minute Saturday emergencies and ‘get the hell out of dodge’.

“Off the grid, Angel, it’s _off_ the grid.” Crowley shot him a fond smile, making a large production of rolling his eyes as he did. He reached around Ezra to close the other man’s binder with a dull _thud_ , throwing Ezra’s planner and folders on top of it. Scooching the other man to the side with a nudge of his slim hips, he scooped them off of the desk and deposited them into Ezra’s waiting arms. “You shouldn’t have even come in at all this morning—it’s Saturday, and your friends are getting married.”

“You called _me,_ ” Ezra replied, patently unamused. Nevertheless, he tossed his armload into a small bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Now, repeat to me what we’ve discussed?”

“No phone calls,” Crowley recited dryly, in a tone that was obviously rehearsed, “no texts, no emails, no drive-by communication, no flyovers, no—“

“Yes, yes, okay, point made,” Ezra chuckled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. “I’ll take this one day and then I’ll be back tomorrow if and when you inevitably phone—everything will be fine.”

Crowley pouted, twirling a long strand of hair about his finger like spaghetti. “But what if I _need_ you, Angel?” he asks beseechingly, liquid amber eyes molten with amusement. “Something might come up that I can’t take care of on my own.”

“No, no.” Ezra clapped Crowley on the shoulder, hand curving around the delicate bone structure and the firm press of the surrounding musculature. He squeezed lightly before relaxing his grip, a light pink creeping up the pale column of his neck. “Ahem.” His hand fell limply to his side, his blush creeping all the way up to touch his cheeks. “Crowley, you’ll manage without me for twenty-four hours—I have faith in your abilities to take care of yourself.”

“More faith than I do, then,” Crowley deadpanned, one hand rising absently to his shoulder, fingers twitching as he felt for a hand that was no longer there. He scooted to the side to let his Counsel through the door. “Alright, Angel, one day off.” Their eyes met, amber locking onto blue, a wry grin tugging at Crowley’s lips. “Scout’s honor.”

Ezra sighed “Please,” he begged, “please please _please_ actually mean it and do not call me. I’ve already had to miss so many different milestones during their wedding planning, I would like to at least be present for the actual event.”

Crowley’s fingers curved around Ezra’s forearm. “I promise, Ezra. Only if it is truly an honest-to-god emergency will I call you.”

“And an emergency would constitute…” Ezra prompted.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Crowley lounged against the doorframe. “I know this one,” he hummed. “You sent me a memo a while back, didn’t you? I know it is _not_ calling you at three o’clock in the morning when I have had a nightmare about becoming the newest member of Queen, or barging into your sushi-making lesson when I forget the lyrics to a song, or—“

 _“Or,_ calling me from breakfast to give me a basket of your _laundry_ to sort because you are missing two different socks and cannot make a matched pair.” Ezra was patently unamused. “Three things, Crowley, three very simple, easy-to-remember things."

Eyes lighting up, Crowley threw his head back as the memory of their previous conversation struck him. “Ah! Large meteor, severe loss of blood, and, uh…”

 _“Death,_ Crowley, death. Death is also an emergency,” Ezra finally exclaimed, patience trickling thinly down the drain. “Only contact me today for one of those three very specific, very alarming things. Is that clear enough?”

Crowley gave Ezra his most winning smile. “Crystal.”

With that promise ringing in his ears, Ezra slid out the door. He all but ran down the hallway and into the elevator, and spent the entire three minute elevator ride anxiously tapping his toes against the floor. When the doors finally slid open, his feet carried him across the lobby as fast as they possibly could while retaining a modicum of composure. He fluttered an absent wave behind him as he sailed by the desk in the lobby,

The first breath of fresh air hit him like the breath of life, a crisp burst of freedom that rushed into Ezra’s lungs and filled him to the brim. He felt ten stone lighter, all but floating down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. “Oh, but it does feel good to be free for a day!” He looked back up at the towering skyscraper and doffed an imaginary hat. “Until tomorrow, then!”

\-- -- -- --

Naturally, the cab ride across town took far, far longer than it ever should have.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Ezra puffed as he darting into Anathema’s dressing room. He dropped into the wooden chair set up in the corner, shoving a hank of blonde hair from his forehead and smoothing out imaginary creases in his suit. “I had to stop by the hotel to drop something off, and double triple check that my dear employer truly knows the meaning of the words ‘day off’.”

Snickering, Anathema shook her head. “I sincerely doubt that will ever be the case,” she told Ezra. “Knowing him, he’ll call you at _some_ point today about something ridiculously mundane.” She arched one pencil-thin brow cockily, a wry grin at her lips. “And you’ll answer, too, won’t you?”

“Hardly,” Ezra sniffed. He stood back up and gazed fondly at his friend. She had traded her unusual mis-mash of clothing for a fitted dress with flowing sleeves, cut low across the chest and shoulders with a fitted bodice. It was a deep, rich purple, almost black unless seen in just the right light, and accented with cream stitching along the bodice and seams. “You look absolutely gorgeous, my dear,” he told her warmly. “I know it’s not the conventional look a lot of women go for, but—“

“—but I am hardly conventional, am I?” Anathema replied, amused. She smiled, genuine this time, and gave a little twirl. “Thank you, though.” Her long hair hung mostly free, bangs contained by a single silver circlet. “Think Newt will approve?”

“He’d be utterly foolish not to do so,” Ezra replied, “and I hardly think he’ll see any flaws in you, today or any other day that follows.”

She beamed and threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Ezra flushed, red spreading from his cherubic cheeks all the way up to the roots of his white-blonde hair. “You’re one of my best friends, my dear” he told her, chuffed, “and I mean every word.”

Tucking her head against his chest to hide her grin, Anathema squeezed Ezra’s shoulders and held on for a long moment. “Now,” she said, somewhat thickly, drawing away and giving him a slightly-watery smile, “let’s get outta here before my dorky fiancé tries to break tradition and sneak in here to see me.”

Ezra chuckled and drew back, grasping her hands and squeezing. “Lead on, madame,” he said.

The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of activity, Ezra dividing his time between waiting with Anathema and Newt. The young man was more fidgety than ever, immaculately dressed in a tuxedo that was obviously a recent purchase—the shirt was so starched he could barely bend his back or arms, and the amount of discomfort he exuded was nearly tangible.

The first time he had stumbled into the room where Newt had holed himself up to pace, Ezra had nearly choked on his own laughter. His friend had buttoned his shirt all the way up his neck and tied his bow tie far too tightly about his throat, and was all but gasping for air as he continued to stride back and forth. “No no no,” Ezra hastened to fumble at the tie with clumsy fingers, undoing it and loosening Newt’s top shirt button. “Leave at least a little breathing room, my dear, you’ll need it so you don’t pass out during the service—or before, for that matter.”

“Thanks,” Newt said ruefully, a light blush joining the flush of nerves already on display across his face. He swiped the back of his hand across his brow. “Isn’t it time yet?” he asked, peering up at the clock.

“It’s only half-ten,” Ezra told him, pulling out his pocket watch for good measure. “You have another fifteen minutes yet before you’re needed in the tent.”

Newt groaned. “Longest fifteen minutes of my life,” he complained.

Ezra squeezed his shoulder. “I, unfortunately, have to get going now, but I’ll see you in just a tic, yes?” He felt inordinately guilty leaving Newt, but the young man had his family due any moment to ensure he was wedding ready, so Ezra removed himself from the small room and stepped out into the bright sunlight of the park.

The young couple had decided to chance an outdoor wedding, forgoing the typical church in favor of a large marquee tent for the ceremony and a secondary tent set up for the reception and dancing. Happily, the bright sunshine and warm breeze validated their months of planning, and Ezra beamed at the warm tickle of sunshine across his face. He had been running around so often for his job it was rare he had much time to “stop and smell the roses,” so to speak.

Ezra queued up with the other groomsmen at the head of the tent as the pianist began to play. He extended his arm to the bridesmaid at his side—one of the coven Anathema maintained contact with, much to her father’s chagrin—and together they walked side-by-side down the aisle of chairs until they were spread out across the front. Ezra was torn between appreciating the culmination of months of hard work and planning, and barely refraining from rolling his eyes at all the pageantry. He appreciated the music—classical, thankfully, and not some of the more exploratory noise Newt tended to prefer—and the attire, and he would _certainly_ appreciate the catering afterward, but all the pomp and circumstance and display he could most happily do without.

The pianist struck a new chord and Ezra jerked to attention. This was it, finally. As one, as of the guests shifted, twisting in their seats and turning to the back of the marquee as Anathema appeared with her father. She was radiant, a vision in indigo and cream. In keeping with her typical “down with the patriarchy mantra” she strolled down the aisle arm-in -arm with her father with her bouquet clasped in his free hand and a resigned grin playing about his lips. The skirt of her dress fluttered in her wake, the deep, rich purple catching the sun’s golden glow.

Beaming, Ezra dabbed at the happy tears forming at the corners of his eyes. She was breathtaking, and all but radiated happiness as she strode down their makeshift aisle to where her husband-to-be awaited her.

Then, the inevitable—just as Newt and Anathema clasped hands, Ezra felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He froze, tensing, back snapping up ramrod straight as his face flushed. _Not_ here _, not_ now. Newt’s eyes flickered to him, confusion darkening his gaze. Ezra offered a flustered, apologetic smile and turned his attention back to the ceremony, dimly tuning in to the prattling of the officiate as he read through the rites and encouraged the couple to exchange their vows.

“You may kiss the bride.” The gathered crowd sighed, smiled, and applauded as Anathema swept Newt into her arms and dipped him down into a passionate kiss.

Ezra’s heart thrummed a happy beat in his chest, joy running flush through his veins. His friends—whom he had known ever since they were aspiring high school pre-law interns and he took them under his wing during their years of law school—had _finally_ sealed the deal and made their years-long relationship legally binding.

That, of course, was when his phone buzzed once again.

As surreptitiously as possible—which was not at all, given that he was standing dead center in front of one hundred-odd wedding guests—he slid his mobile from his coat pocket and thumbed the screen.

Crowley’s face appeared, backlit and grinning. _Emergency._ The text read _. Plz come quickly._

Ezra’s heart jumped into his mouth. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, fidgeting as he waited for Newt and Anathema to turn back down the aisle. Anathema caught his eye, her gaze flicking from his frustrated expression to his pocket and back. She rolled her eyes and jerked her head, and Ezra took off like a horse from a gate, sprinting around the back of the marquee and off toward the street.

\-- -- -- --

The ensuing cab ride took an eternity. When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the towering hotel building, Ezra all but flew from his seat, flinging money at the driver as he leapt out the door. He nearly caught the sleeve of his suit in the door as he slammed it shut behind him. “Please don’t be dead,” he muttered, heart pounding as he sprinted across the street and courtyard and into the lobby of the hotel. “Evening Billy,” he gasped, darting by the front desk and giving the attendant a flustered nod. Allowing his momentum to carry him, he barreled into the elevator just as the door was starting to slide closed, ignoring the startled looks the few guests shot him.

Mind scrambling for purchase, he punched at the elevator buttons until the penthouse floor lit up, then sagged back against the garish wall. In the time it took the elevator to ascend the full scale of the hotel, and the time it took his company to depart onto their own floors, Ezra had run through thousands of terrible “what-if” scenarios, each more ghastly than the last.

What sort of emergency could convince Crowley to break their strict “no contact” contract this night of all nights?? Had there been an attempt on his life? Was the _building_ burning down?—he shook his head, clearing that one away, for surely not if there were no alarms—but what could it be, what if Crowley was lying injured in a pool of his own blood in his suite and no one was there to help. What if—

The elevator door dinged, and Ezra shot out into the hallway like a bullet, breath coming in wheezing gasps as he made short work of the remaining yards between him and Crowley’s door. Plastic slapped against metal as he slammed his keycard against the lock, and he winced as the card caught at an unnatural angle and bent inward on itself. Miraculously, it did not snap, and the door clicked open with a quiet ‘snick’.

“Crowley?” Ezra tumbled into the open living space, looking wildly about the darkened suite for signs of his erstwhile employer. His blond hair was tousled to the point of tangles, sweat darkening his crisp light-blue shirt and vest underneath. He paid none of it any attention, pausing only to yank at the bow tie that now constricted his breathing, untying it so that it fell to hang around his neck in two long tails. “Crowley??”

There was another long beat of silence, and then a muffled, answering call came from the direction of Crowley’s bedroom.

Ezra was moving before his brain even registered the sound, throwing open the door and leaping toward the closet. Even as his eyes registered the sight before him, his brain was slow to catch up, his body even farther behind. Momentum carried him through the door, his arms windmilling as he struggled to slow himself, and he staggered and all but careened into Crowley.

Golden eyes widening, the billionaire spun from where he had been contemplating his line of designer suits and caught him, cushioning the flailing lawyer against his chest and wrapping one arm around his shoulders to hold him steady. “Easy, Angel, what’s the hurry?” He blinked, eyes sweeping up and down Ezra’s frame. “Shit, Ezra, you look _amazing.”_

Ezra gaped like a fish out of water, eyes sliding from Crowley—who was clad only in a vest and his boxers and was now pressed against him _far_ too closely for comfort, he realized with a blush—to the veritable fortune of fabric hanging before him. Placing his palms flat against Crowley’s chest he propelled himself backwards, eyes sliding down the delicate curve of Crowley’s collarbone. Gravity took hold, dragging his eyes lower and forcing him to take in the light dusting of rusty hair peeking from the neck of Crowley’s vest, drawing his attention to the way the black, ribbed fabric stretched deliciously over his leanly-muscled torso—slender but _fit,_ like a dancer. Against his will, his eyes flitted down to Crowley’s crotch, caught a glimpse of a rather respectable bulge—

Flushing, he jerked his head up and sucked in a breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. _Focus._ He had to force himself back to the present, force himself to recall his earlier ire and _not_ think about Crowley’s drop-dead _gorgeous_ body and lean muscles, light dusting of hair, his—

Ezra gritted his teeth, exhaled around them. “Crowley,” he hissed, more than a little proud of how his voice refused to waver, “did you call me—while I was at the wedding of my two best friends, a wedding that, I might add, we _explicitly_ placed as an ‘off-limits’ event for phone calls—tell me it was an emergency, and summon me here at seven in the evening to _help you choose what to wear tonight?!”_

Blinking, Crowley staggered back until he was pressed against a protruding rack of shoes. “Yes?” The answer emerged a question more than a decisive statement as the full force of Ezra’s ire broke against him. His face turned down into a frown as he took in Ezra’s red face, disheveled appearance, and frosty blue glare. “Shit, angel, that’s the wrong answer, isn’t it?”

One terse nod was all the answer he received.

“Fuck.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, sucking air through his teeth. “Christ, Ezra, I am so, so sorry—I just, there’s this big fundraiser dinner tonight, and half of my board will be there, and you have such an _eye_ for fashion—which is odd, since you dress like my grandfather—and I just _needed_ you—“

“That’s the problem, Crowley,” Ezra said quietly, closing his eyes briefly before blinking them back open. The sheer amount of emotion packed into the stare with which he fixed upon Crowley left the other man floored. “You _always_ need me. I can’t even have a life anymore because I’m always managing _yours.”_

His eyes flickered back to Crowley’s barely-clothed form, and he blushed again. “Here,” he scrabbled for a grey tee shirt and a pair of black joggers, seizing them and rapidly tossing them to Crowley in a misshapen missile of fabric. “Get dressed.”

Crowley suddenly seemed to realize that he stood before Ezra in nothing but his underclothes, and he jerked upright, a light flush tinting his own cheeks. Robotically, he fielded the clothes, awkwardly shrugging into the shirt while still trying to juggle the sweats in the crook of his elbow. “How can I make it better, Angel?” he asked, voice briefly muffled as he tugged the soft cotton over his head. “Week in the Hamptons? Private honeymoon in the Caymans for your friends?” Stepping into his pants, he cocked an eyebrow at Ezra. “Personal library?

Ezra allowed that dream to marinate briefly in his mind before shaking his head firmly. “No, Crowley.” His mouth firmed into a thin line, brows drawing“you can’t bribe your way out of this one. You have to learn how to take care of yourself. Even for what you pay me, it’s not enough for me to manage your life as well as my own. You’re a good man, but also a _grown_ man. You need to be able to take care of yourself—or hire someone else who wants to.”

Even as he spoke, his heart was tearing itself in two, though he kept his face stoic. Crowley, on the other hand, wore his heart on his sleeve, and as Ezra continued Crowley’s face crumpled—Ezra could not even look at him as he continued, could not bare to watch those golden eyes grow brighter, could not stand to see the hurt and anger and _betrayal_ simmering just below the surface of that usually cheerful facade.

The worst of it was that Ezra did not _want_ to quit. Ezra wanted to spend as much time in Crowley’s company as he could—but not as his assistant, not as his “go-to man”, not as his right hand and right foot and training wheels. “I hired on to be your Chief Counsel, Crowley, not your babysitter.”

Crowley’s mouth worked furiously for a moment, his brows drawing together in a thunderous scowl, betrayal evaporating in a wave of indignant ire. “Well what about _you?”_ He threw back, whirling to glare at Ezra, hands planted on his slim hips. “Who leaves their mobile on at a _wedding?_ I’ll tell you why, Angel, you _like_ it. You like the chaos, and the management, and the _emergencies._ You like being needed.”

Ezra sucked in a quick breath, irritated beyond speech. “I—yes, let’s make this about _me,”_ he retorted, even as he strode without thinking over to the conveyer-belt of suits and fished one off. “ _I’m_ the one who always has a question, _I’m_ the one who cannot seem to think for himself.” He flung the suit at Crowley and seized two ties—one a deep indigo and the other a rich emerald green— and held them up in front of Crowley’s face. “It’s _my_ fault you have to call me for everything.” He waggled the ties up and down, frowning at Crowley until he reached out and plucked the emerald one from Ezra’s fingers.

“You think I _like_ being so dependent on you?” Crowley was incredulous. “I was capable of making all _sorts_ of decisions before I hired you, but now? Now, Angel, it’s like an addiction. I have to know what you think, I have to get your opinion—I cannot stop!”

Ezra sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, perhaps you should—we should.” He should have known long before now that this would have to eventually end—after nearly a year of playing everything from lawyer to makeup artist to personal DJ to the man in front of him, he had finally had enough. “Let’s face it, Crowley, you are entirely too dependent on me, and I have no life of my own working for you. My hobbies have faded into the background because all I ever seem to do is my _actual_ job and answer strange, off-the-wall questions for _you._ I cannot take it anymore. _”_

He took the tie from Crowley’s fingers and wrapped it about his neck, tying it in neat, precise movements. “Crowley.” He looked down at his seated employer. “I quit.”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He ran a hand through his hair, looking completely and utterly lost. “But—“

“No buts,” Ezra declared, resolute. “Consider this my two weeks, Crowley—I’m done.” He closed his eyes briefly, desperately fighting back the wave of uncertainty that threatened to engulf him, spun on his heel, and strode out of the closet without a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to read and comment....now we're getting into the fun parts!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra enacts his devious plan to force Crowley to fire him. Things get...complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting! I got "real-lifed" by my job and lost some writing time, but I managed to get a good little chapter strung together in fairly short order. Advance apologies for typos, I'm sure I missed some in my initial proofread, but will catch them tomorrow when I get a chance to go back through.
> 
> We get a bit nsfw in some implied thoughts, but no true naughty bits yet....have to make our boys work for it!

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, but we just don’t have any positions available for you at the moment.”

Ezra blinked, staring across the desk at the head of his third law firm of the morning. “But—you had an advertisement posted,” he protested. “I saw it last night—that’s why I came in first thing.”

The woman’s lips turned down a frown, fingers tapping her pen against her desk. “I’m sorry, but Newman Law Firm subcontracts out far too often to Crowley Enterprises—“

“Ah. _Bollocks._ ” Realization slammed into Ezra like a ton of bricks. “Of course. And Mr. Crowley phoned you this morning to tell you not to hire me.”

She winced. “I _am_ sorry, Mr. Fell, but we cannot risk damaging such a lucrative business relationship.”

“Oh, it isn’t _your_ fault,” Ezra told her, already pushing his chair back and standing. “That no-good, conniving _bastard.”_ He smoothed his unruly curls and shouldered his bag. “Good day to you, and best of luck filling the position.” He saw himself out, frowning all the while. He had already spoken to representatives of all of the major firms that tended to stray into his line of pro-bono and/or community preservation work, but he did recall that some of the smaller ones—more his style anyway, quite frankly—had been advertising recently as well.

Three _more_ stops later had him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, pressing his face agitatedly against the iron of a light post and growling obscenities as he ignored the curious stares of passersby.

Two local firms _and_ the Legal Aid office had _also_ turned him away—the two independent enterprises had purportedly been handed an obnoxiously impressive sum of money _not_ to hire him, and the Legal Aid office told him that a very generous donation had been placed into one of its sub-organizations on the condition they not take Ezra on as an employee. As absolutely peeved as he was that Crowley was apparently buying out the entire city and surrounding metropolitan area to prevent his acquiring alternative employment, he couldn’t exactly dispute that last, and even gave a quiet ‘huh’ of appreciation for Crowley’s clever use of charity as a weapon.

“That absolute wazzock,” he grated into his mobile to Tracy, “has made it impossible for me to find another job.”

“Well go call him on it, love,” Tracy told him, her voice bleating out from the small speaker. “You march right on in there and tell that pillock exactly where he should put his bleeding money. He’s taken right advantage of you this last year, and didn’t have the decency to give you a good lay along the way.” Her tinny voice subsided into a series of low, threatening-sounding mutters.

“Tracy!” Ezra’s ears burned red beneath his halo of blond hair. “ _Not_ helping.”

He could almost see her wave her hand dismissively in the air. “Oh pish. You young things are so conservative nowadays.”

“I’m forty-two, Tracy, that’s hardly young.”

“I have twenty years on you, laddie, I’ll thank you to hush and accept the experience of your elders. Go tell that skinny, slinky, rich piece of tail exactly what you think of him.” He can _hear_ her wink and smirk. “And if you get the chance, jump his bones on the way out the door—nothing to lose now, eh?”

“Goodbye, Tracy,” Ezra says firmly. “I’ll phone later.” He hangs up as quickly as he politely can, still tomato-red and, he is half-certain, smoking from the ears. As though he could _ever—_

Sighing he turns his attention to the matter at hand. No matter what his stance on Crowley’s attractiveness—which aggravatingly remains unchanged—he is not about to allow the man to block him from ever obtaining another job in this city. “I suppose I have to face the bastard sooner or later,” he muttered. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he still had Crowley’s schedule for the entire year scribbled in the planner secured in his bag. Whipping it out, he thumbed through to that particular October day.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

* * *

Ezra stormed into the massage parlor like an avenging angel, eyes cracking with electric fury. A wake of agitated attendants trailed him like flies, waving their arms ineffectually as they tried to draw him back out into the lobby.

“Stop sabotaging my job search!”

“Wha—Angel?” Crowley asked. He lay sprawled on his stomach on a lush massage table, a plush towel covering his narrow hips and lanky legs. Twisting his head to peer up at Ezra, he scrambled upright in a tangle of limbs, dislodging the towel in the process and sending it fluttering to the ground as he stood.

Ezra’s eyes widened, wrath temporarily forgotten.

He was well aware of Crowley’s gorgeous physique, but had carefully ensured that he never had the opportunity to appreciate it first-hand. All of that went sailing out the window now as the man stood before him, bare as the day he was born—and wholly unselfconscious.

His fiery hair tumbled about his shoulders, curling over well-formed deltoids and lats in a flaming caress. Lean the man might be, but he was a _fit_ lean. His chest was sprinkled with a smattering of slightly darker auburn hair, the short, curling carpet following the line of his sternum down to the well-cut vee of his abdomen.

He had a curling snake tattoo set laterally on the line of his ribs, stretched between the protrusion of one bony hip and the bottom edge of his right shoulder blade. Ezra inexplicably wanted nothing more than to trace that line with is tongue, press a kiss to each and every well-outlined scale and suck a mark at the sinuous coil of that lithe, serpentine form. He would start high, right at the curve of Crowley’s shoulder, and work his way down, stopping to lathe his chest with attention, those well-outlined pectoral muscles and the dark buds of his nipples nestled in the center.

Lost in the fantasy, his gaze drop lower, settling on the rather impressive cock nestled at the apex of his thighs. Ezra’s own cock gave a traitorous twitch, and he jerked his head up before that train of thought could take him too far down a _very_ dangerous track.

“Um,” he stuttered, usual eloquence failing him as his previous rage fluttered ineffectually from its simmering pile of cooling embers. He shook his head. Time to regroup. He forced his gaze to settle on the large window set against the back wall, staring through it and out into the open air of the city.

Swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, turned his lips down in a furious frown. Stir those embers, stoke that fire—he had to regain the rage that he had lost. “You’ve made it impossible for me to find another job,” he finally threw out hoarsely. “I’ve met with three firms this morning alone and they all _conveniently_ have managed to fill their open positions, or not need to fill them at all.”

Crowley shrugged, unrepentant. “Of course—they’re all business partners, all it took was a phone call and some money and then _suddenly_ they decided they no longer needed an additional employee.” He gave Ezra a smug look. “And nearly ever firm in this city has some sort of business dealing with me, so good luck finding anyone to hire you, Angel.”

Ezra’s eyebrows drew together in fury. _There_ was his anger, his“So you’ve essentially made it virtually impossible for me to find a position with anyone but, what, Slurpee Heaven?”

Crowley snorted dismissively, golden eyes twinkling. “Oh no, I called them as well.”

“Argh!” Ezra stomped his foot. “You cannot do that, Crowley, I’m allowed to find work elsewhere!”

Eyes alighting with glee, Crowley whipped out a neat sheaf of paper, dangling it so close to Ezra’s nose that his eyes crossed. “Not according to _this,_ Angel,” he declared. “According to this contract, which _you_ wrote and _you_ signed, you are required to stay in my employ until at _least_ three months after we finish construction of the new hotel on the north side of the city. We’ve only just wrapped up the framework, you have at least another few months as minimum.” His eyes glittered with mirth. “And _you_ wrote the contract, and you’re the best, so I know it’s ironclad.”

Ezra seized the contract, flipping through it in increasingly frantic despair “Shit.”

* * *

Unfortunately, Crowley was correct; with that contract, he still had Ezra by the balls—and not in _any_ way to which Tracy would approve.

“This really is an amazing contract, Ezra,” Anathema exclaimed to him over the phone. Ezra could hear pages turning in the background as she flipped through the sheaf of paper she had printed from his hasty, overly-apologetic email. She and Newt were honeymooning down south, and from the sounds of things were currently enjoying poolside drinks and entertainment. Ezra had absolutely _hated_ to disturb them, but they were the best he knew beyond himself and if anyone could find a way out of this fiasco it would be one of them. “Truly a work of intellectual genius—I don’t think there is any wiggle room whatsoever.”

Ezra groaned. “That is not helpful, Anathema,” he deadpanned, pressing his face into the wall and making what would be, on a less-cultured man, a very immature face. The plaster was cool against his forehead, a solid counter to the wobbly discontent of his emotions and the flip-flop turning of his stomach.

He heard Newt mumble something in the background.

“Newt says the only way he could see Crowley letting you go is if you actually got him _to_ let you go,” Anathema told him.

Ezra froze and spun away from the wall to look down thoughtfully at his desk, winding the cord of his personal office phone about his free hand. “Now _that’s_ a thought,” he mused. “That’s a thought indeed.”

“You’ve never been able to half-ass anything in your life, though,” Anathema said dubiously. Even with thousands of miles between them Ezra knew precisely the look of pursed-mouth disbelief that she would be wearing. “Can you _actually_ perform poorly enough to get Crowley to fire you?” She snorted. “I swear he’s half in love with you already, it would probably take a capital offense to push him completely beyond his limits.”

Grimacing, Ezra stared determinedly at the wall. “I have to at least try,” he declared.”

And try he would. 

The following morning, Ezra rose from bed feeling a new man—he had a plan, a strategy, and he _would not fail._ He whistled through his shower, scrubbed his blond hair dry with a grin, and slid into his antiquated outfit with an actual giggle. Passing by the mirror, he frowned thoughtfully at his reflection. Perfectly respectable on all fronts, but perhaps _too_ respectable. He lifted a hand to his throat, fiddling with his bowtie, and tugged it out of its immaculate knot. The tie fluttered loosely to the dresser, and Ezra undid the top few buttons of his shirt for good measure as well. “In for a penny,” he hummed, and untucked his shirt while he was at it, even going so far as to discard his waistcoat before slipping into his coat. “Perfect.”

The phone in his pocket gave an annoying chime. “Ah, the Blakely meeting,” Ezra mused, pulling out the device to thumb at the calendar app. “Looks like it’s starting in fifteen minutes. Once I get a car, and stop for a nibble, I should be, oh, at least thirty minutes late.” He chuckled delightedly and strolled out the door.

True to his prediction, he rolled to a stop in front of the affluent Mr. Blakely’s building at half-ten, ambling through the lobby and taking a moment to discuss winter holiday plans with a lovely woman named Renee at the front desk. Leaning back against the wall of the elevator, Ezra fumbled for a moment in his pocket and fished out a pack of chewing gum. He gave the slim sticks an appraising glance, then carefully unwrapped two, discarding the wrappers on the carpeted elevator floor, and shoved them into his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late,” he drawled, doing his best to mimic Crowley’s slinky saunter as he stepped into the office.

Crowley snapped to attention, his brows pulling together into a ferocious scowl. “Ezra.” He wore an irritated expression. “The meeting was due to start forty minutes ago. I was expecting you at least half an hour early to prep.”

“Sorry, bossman.” Ezra swaggered over to Crowley and dropped onto the chair beside him. “Mr. Blakely, nice to meet you, sir.” He leaned forward to scoop a framed photo from the table in front of them. “Are these your children?”

The utterly bemused Mr. Blakely nodded, settling into his own seat. “My two sons, Barry and Clyde, and my daughter Ruth,” he said, every bit the proud parent.

“Aaaah, yes, she is a dear,” Ezra said brightly, peering at the photo.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, “I believe that is young Clyde. _That_ is Ruth.”

Chomping on his gum, Ezra gave the photo another glance. “And so it is. My b, sir.” He could see the moment Crowley began to cotton onto his plan, that adorable— _not_ adorable, nothing was adorable about Crowley any more—look of utter bafflement slowly giving way to horrified realization as he started to follow Ezra’s train of thought.

An air of terrible awkwardness hung about the small office, amplified when Ezra kicked his feet up on the table, leaned back in his chair and gave Mr. Blakely his winningest smile. “So,” he chirped, “what’s the sitch?”

An agonizing thirty minutes later, Crowley was ushering a flushed Ezra from the room by one elbow, his face a thundercloud. “What the bloody hell was that, Angel?” His words, when they finally came, all but exploded out of him in a vicious whisper. His eyes were covered by his standard dark glasses, but Ezra could feel the heat of their glare even through the smokey lenses.

“I have no idea to what you are referring,” Ezra said primly.

“You show up late, you’re chewing gum—and I know you detest chewing gum, don’t even pretend that you don’t—you’re deliberately rude to a business partner—“ Crowley shook his head. “I didn’t even know you knew enough slang to use it in conversation—although your choices were as out of date as your outfit, and—“ He cut himself off, clapping his hands over his face and closing his eyes. “Right. Well.” One hand lowered to his side, leaving the other pinching the narrow bridge of his nose. “What do you want?”

Ezra blinked. “For you to fire me, of course. That was an _abysmal_ performance on my part, any employer would have been mortified. Obviously I have to pay the price for my insubordination.”

The small hallway grew even more confined as Crowley filled it with a round of genuine laughter. “I’m not going to fire you, Angel,” he chortled, sweeping a hand through his artfully-distressed hair. “Even when you’re making an arse of yourself you manage to pull through enough to earn your keep. We still got the contract, even _if_ Mr. Blakely has banned you from his office in perpetuity.”

“But—what…” Ezra felt a surge of despair flood him. “But I was _awful_. My performance was abysmal, I look a right slob, I feel _terrible—“_

A pair of employees strode down the hall chatting, and Ezra shut up. Once they passed, he gripped Crowley by the bicep and hauled him bodily through the first open door and into what he now realized was the men’s room. “Look, Crowley.” Ezra dropped his mask, let all pretense fall, and let Crowley simply see him exactly how he was—exhausted, overwrought, and stressed beyond high heaven.

“I’m tired. I can’t sleep at night because I’m constantly interrupted by _you_ calling me or summoning me from my bed, or having nightmares _about_ my sleep being constantly interrupted by you. I’ve given myself an ulcer from stressing about your day-to-day affairs, I know ever loan agent in the city by name, home address, and _family life_ because of the amount of negotiating I’ve done for you. I have no social life whatsoever—I haven’t been on a date in over a year, I barely see my friends in person, and when I do I’m _summoned from their wedding_ to help you choose outfits.”

He paused to suck in a deep breath. “I just came to work looking like an absolute mess, for the first time in nearly twenty years I did not try my hardest to perform my job duties and it was _horrible._ I like you as a person, Crowley, I truly, truly do.” If he was perhaps more honest than he should have been, well, he was overwrought. He was due a slight meltdown. He looked up at Crowley, blue eyes wide and guileless. “But, I absolutely _cannot_ work for you anymore. It is literally killing me.”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed for a moment like a fish out of water. “Ezra, I…” he paused, fumbling for the proper words. “Shit, fine, _fine.”_ He combed his hand through his hair. “You win.” He reached up and straightened Ezra’s messy collar, finger’s lingering at his neck and thumb darting up to trace the air above the curve of his jaw. “Regardless of how poorly you think of _me_ , I do respect you, more than anyone I have ever known,” he told him, “and I certainly don’t want to see you so defeated because of my doing.”

Ezra felt a flutter of something that was quite certainly more than just _hope_ at Crowley’s words. He swallowed, hoping the movement would distract him from the fact that his heart was turning circles in his chest. “You mean that,” he exclaimed, suddenly very nearly overwhelmed by the force of Crowley’s sincerity. “You actually mean that.”

“Course I do.” Crowley’s hand snapped back to his side. “You’ve become my friend, Angel, as unprofessional as _that_ sounds, and I do rely entirely too much on your opinion I know, and—“ He broke off as his thoughts tangled in his mouth. “ _Anyway,_ what I’m trying to say is that, I suppose if you feel you _must_ leave me, I can consider the contract null and void and we’ll get you settled somewhere else.”

Ezra seized Crowley’s hand and held it to his chest. “Do you truly mean it?” he asked, eyes wide. “Oh Crowley, _thank you.”_

“You have to help me find someone suitable to replace you,” Crowley interjected, hand flexing beneath Ezra’s. He left it in place, long fingers tucked up underneath Ezra’s thicker ones, pressed against his shirt and chest. “Can’t just swan off and leave me unattended—without an assistant, that is,” he amended, a hint of red touching _his_ cheeks.

Biting back a smile, Ezra peered up at him from beneath his lashed. “It’s a deal, Crowley,” he said warmly, squeezing the hand he currently held hostage.

“Right, that’s settled then!” Crowley flipped his hand to seize Ezra’s in a firm shake, then withdrew. As he did, the ring he wore on his middle finger—a garish serpent that Ezra could never decide if he loved or hated—slid off and fell to the tile floor with a loud clatter. “Oh, bugger!”

“I’ve got it!” Ezra knelt before Crowley could object, scooting forward on his knees to grab at the golden band. “Got it!” he declared triumphantly, tipping his head back to give Crowley a satisfied grin. As he did, it occurred to him precisely the proximity his current position put him to Crowley, and, more specifically, Crowley’s _crotch._

He gulped, staring up at the fork of Crowley’s trousers, mouth watering slightly despite himself as he eyed the bulge that rested against Crowley’s thigh. “Guh, uh—“ He shoved the ring into the air, closing his eyes and whipping his head to stare at the wall beside him instead. “Here you go, Crowley.”

“Thanks Angel,” Crowley replied in a strangled voice. He slid the ring back on his finger and reached down to clutch at Ezra’s shoulder. “Now, up you get—“ He tugged, but stopped as Ezra let out a pained yelp and jerked against him. “Wha—“

“My hair!” Ezra wailed, twisting his head as much as his position would allow to give Crowley an utterly dejected look. “My hair is stuck on your zipper.”

Crowley blinked. _That_ was unexpected. He tried to pretend he was absolutely _not_ interested in all of the less-than-appropriate ideas that surfaced with Ezra kneeling at his feet with his face _literally_ level with his cock.

He failed abysmally.

“Er, let me just—“ He reached down and fiddled with the thick golden strands, gripping the offending strands at the base and tugging gently at the ends caught in his fly. He tried to ignore the way Ezra’s hair felt against his fingers, the way the soft locks caught and curled against his calluses and the way Ezra sighed lightly as Crowley’s free hand fell to the base of his neck to curl in the soft hairs _there_ to hold him steady.

“I think you’ve almost got it,” Ezra told Crowley’s sinfully-tight trousers, forcing his eyes to remain set on a fixed point along Crowley’s thigh. He glared a hole into the black fabric, willing himself not to stray, determined not to give way to temptation, absolutely positively _not_ going to—no, and there he went, gaze sliding up and over to peer interestedly at Crowley’s cock, now pressing somewhat more tightly against the crotch of his trousers. Unthinkingly, his tongue darted out to draw slowly across his pink lips.

Crowley gulped. “Uh, Angel—“

It was, of course, at that moment the door swung open and Mr. Blakely himself appeared behind Ezra. “I’ll um, use the one downstairs then,” he said, looking from Crowley to Ezra and back, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval as he swung back around. The door swung shut behind him, echoing loudly through the now-silent loo.

“I’d say we are probably _both_ banned from his building after that.” Despite himself, Ezra giggled. It started softly, just a nervous explosion of sound that bubbled out without his willing it. The sound grew, taking him by storm and leaving him shaking with mirth, shoulders heaving, as he leaned against Crowley’s solid thigh and laughed.

After a moment, Crowley joined in, the absurdity of the situation catching up to him as well. He curled one hand about Ezra’s neck, thumb sweeping idly across his collarbone, its partner still smoothing across the hair ensnared in his zip. “Didn’t expect _this_ when you initiated your nefarious plot this morning, did you?” he teased. Despite the accusation, his hands were gentle as they finally extracted the offending lock of hair and smoothed it back into place with a pat. “Up you get, then.” He gripped Ezra’s arms and hauled him to his feet, shaking his head ruefully and glaring down at a decidedly _un_ cooperative part of his anatomy. “Erm, sorry about that.”

“Water under the bridge,” Ezra told him, diligently _not_ looking down. He blushed and shook his own head, gingerly patting at his hair.

Crowley rolled his eyes despite himself, forcing himself on the attack to distract himself from the way his heart still thrummed within the cage of his ribs and the way his cock stood interestingly within his pants. “Angel, people really don’t say _that_ any more, either,” he snickered, willing his expression into something closer to teasing and _not_ outright desire. Never had he been more thankful to have Ezra looking away from him than in this moment.

“Pish.” Ezra waved away the needling remark. He took a long moment to straighten himself—doing up the buttons of his shirt, tucking in the tails, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his coat—and then turned a bright eye upon Crowley. “Were you serious about the contract?” he asked, unable to keep the hope from his entreaty.

“As a heart attack,” Crowley promised, crossing his own heart, entirely taken aback when he suddenly found himself with an armful of attorney.

“Oh, _thank_ you, Crowley, thank you!!!” Ezra squeezed him tightly, pressing his face into Crowley’s indigo shirt and breathing a happy little sigh. “I’ll find you the best replacement _ever,_ Crowley, I promise!” He leaned back just enough to meet Crowley’s eyes, arms still resting at his slim hips. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Crowley offered an answering smile, albeit one stained by a subtle hint of sadness. “I sincerely doubt that, Angel. But, we can try.”

What he didn’t say, but felt deep, deep down within, was that no replacement, however intelligent and however competent, would _ever_ be able to replace the space that Ezra Fell had carved into his heart.


End file.
